


Fate Weaver

by ArabellaFaith



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Sex, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Lust, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23254699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArabellaFaith/pseuds/ArabellaFaith
Summary: Geralt knew, first hand, why it was such a bad idea for a human to travel with a Witcher. And an even worse idea for them to sleep together. But as he finds out, some things are inevitable.He can't outrun fate forever.Starting pre-Netflix series, spanning through the show, using book, show, and game canon and timelines, this story explores the relationship between bard and Witcher, and eventually a sorceress as well.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 26
Kudos: 212





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know that the books, games, and show all have drastically different timelines? Yeah. Makes trying to tie them all together a pain in the ass. I did my best, though. With the popularity of the show, I'm going to assume that's what most people are familiar with, and anything different will be given an explanation for those who don't know the books/games.
> 
> This fic is complete at 32k words, and I will be posting as I edit. Expect a chapter every other day or so.
> 
> Enjoy!

Death comes for everyone, sooner or later. It was a fact that Geralt was intimately familiar with. Witchers walked hand in hand with death, after all. They brought it with them wherever they went. And when it was their turn to die, they met it with open eyes. Welcomed it like an old friend they’d been long expecting.

Witchers accepted the inevitability of death. Most said they were calloused to it, or uncaring all together. They weren’t entirely wrong. But a callous starts out as a wound. A wound that is pricked at and reopened so many times that the body is forced to protect itself.

And as Geralt cradled the body of his dying human companion, he couldn’t help but think back to the first time a human he loved had died in his arms.

***

Geralt’s first summer out of Kaer Morhen had been an education unlike anything he’d received before. Nearly a decade of training in the keep had honed his body and mind, had turned him into a weapon that could cut through monsters with ease, but it hadn’t prepared him for  _ humans. _

Humans were loud, and overpopulated, and either so aware of their own mortality that they were bitter, or so unaware of it that it made them stupid. Their constant talking was an assault on a Witcher’s sensitive ears, and their  _ smell. _ Geralt had become practically immune to the scent of blood, of rotting monster flesh, of horse and of dirt and of everything else that came with the life he lived. But humans were different. Under the general scent of unwashed bodies, there was always something more. The tang of sweat and adrenaline when they were afraid. The rush of salt and spice when they were aroused. Food and Alcohol when they were provided for, and the stench of bile when they were starving.

Worse than that was their fickleness. They turned on their saviors, their neighbors, even themselves, at the slightest whim. Geralt had been told that humans didn’t trust Witchers, and that they couldn’t be trusted in return, but that hadn’t prepared him for the constant sound of their hearts thundering through a lie. For their unchecked aggression. For their superstitions and their greed and their cruelty.

Geralt had seen enough of all of those things for a lifetime that first summer.

And then he met someone who made him think maybe humans weren’t so terrible after all.

Buttercup was the daughter of a farmer in a village set upon by ghouls. She was beautiful, soft spoken, and quick to smile. More than that, she didn’t stink of fear when he was near her. She didn’t seem to distrust him, either. She was curious about him, and the life he lived. Her own had been frustratingly uneventful - by her own admission - as though she’d been waiting for something bigger to happen. 

They talked a little, while he accepted the contract and then while he was preparing. Geralt was unused to being spoken to with so little animosity. Naive as he was, he opened for her like a flower to the sun. She was different from the others. She was different than  _ anyone _ Geralt had spent time with up close. There were no women in Kaer Morhen, and though he’d enjoyed his sexual encounters with the men there, he found himself curious about a woman. What would she feel like, under his fingertips? Under his tongue? Around his cock?

He never truly expected to find out. He went out and killed the ghouls, took his promised coin, and bedded down in the barn - which had only been grudgingly offered to him. He expected to be on his way in the morning without looking back.

Instead, Buttercup had slipped into the straw beside him, and they’d talked the night through. Near sunrise, something shifted, and suddenly the rush of spice reached his nose. Arousal. Not his own, though he’d been half hard from Buttercup’s simple proximity. No,  _ her _ arousal.

He’d still been in shock of it when she first kissed him. And then he gave into his desires.

In that moment, he couldn’t understand the older Witchers, for whom sex was quick and violent, an outlet for their animalistic, inescapable urges. Geralt didn’t want to just mount Buttercup and rut until he was satisfied, as quickly and unattached as possible. He wanted to  _ savor _ her. He explored her body, drank in each sound of her pleasure. He was fumbling at times, while discovering what she liked, with her fragile body so different from his own, but her sweetness eased away any uncertainty.

It was the first time in his yet-short life that he’d known gentleness, and tenderness, and maybe even love.

When her father had run him out the next morning, with blustering indignation and barely suppressed rage, he expected that was the last time he would ever see her. He’d mourned that, as he continued on the road to the next town. But she had shown him that not all humans were quite so terrible. Maybe there would be others. Ones who didn’t fear him, who were capable of affection toward someone different. Someone like him.

If he hadn’t stopped for an extended rest at noon - a concession to the sleepless night he’d spent - he wouldn’t have seen her. He would have already been through the next town by the time she reached it, barefoot and limping.

As angry as her family had been with Geralt, they’d been moreso with Buttercup for sullying herself with a Witcher. They’d beaten her and thrown her out. Geralt wanted to go back and tear them to fucking pieces. Only Buttercup’s gentle hand on his arm had restrained him. There was pain and exhaustion around her eyes. Geralt had melted under the weight of her need. He tended her as best he could, comforted her, and made her promises that he’d been taught Witchers shouldn’t make.

He thought it was different.  _ She _ was different. He could promise to take care of her, to protect her, to provide for her. He could love her, and she could love him.

He had the fleeting end of one summer, and a single beautiful autumn to believe those things.

They got by, as best they could. He took contracts in every town to try and keep a roof over her head. She worked too, when she was able. Mending clothes, pouring drinks in a tavern for a night, anything that brought in a little coin. The days were long, and grueling, but the nights were sweet. Geralt had never heard of a Witcher with a lifelong companion, but he was prepared to be the first. When the weather started to grow cold, they began the journey back to Kaer Morhen. Maybe they would be met with questions, or disbelief, but Geralt wouldn’t be parted from Buttercup. Not by anyone.

In the end, it hadn’t mattered. What had started out as a simple cough, picked up in the last town they’d been through, turned into a raging fever. An early snow storm trapped them in the little shelter they’d made on the roadside. There were no monsters to fight off, no humans to defend her from. He could not kill the illness inside her, and he could not make the storm bend to his will with a blade.

It took less than two days for her to succumb to the sickness. Geralt held her in his arms, kissed her forehead, whispered his love to her, and watched the light fade from her eyes.

He buried her in the woods, her grave marked by a simple stone, and then continued on to Kaer Morhen. The boys, still in training, saw the haunted look in his eyes and thought he must have seen horrors out on the Path. But some of the older ones understood. They’d thought things would be different for them, too, once upon a time. He wasn’t the first Witcher to have learned this particularly cruel lesson. They offered him silent solidarity.

Everything that had opened in Geralt that summer closed off again. He’d been taciturn before Buttercup, but barely deigned to speak at all after. He cut off his emotions, forced himself to be as unfeeling as the humans claimed. Not feeling at all would be better than living in pain.

His second year on the Path, he kept to himself. He killed monsters, collected his coin, and moved on swiftly. He refused to think of what he’d lost, except as a means of armoring himself against it again. And time went on.

One year, he came across a girl being accosted. Her hair had been as blonde as Buttercup’s. Her eyes, wide with terror, the same shade of blue. He killed the man attacking her, and then backed away in dismay when she vomited and screamed at the sight of him.

He bedded a woman in the woods once, opposite of Buttercup in almost every way. Strong, rough, vengeful. He’d thought he could dissuade her from the bloody course she was set upon. That they could travel together, for a while. And the following morning, when he’d been forced to kill her, holding her body had reminded him of holding Buttercup, limp and lifeless. He left Blaviken feeling flayed to the bone. An old wound, reopened.

_ Never again, _ he swore to himself. He gladly let humans think the worst of him. He never let himself forget that he wasn’t one of them. He was not made for tenderness, for love. He was a weapon. Nothing more. He talked to his horse when he felt he would go mad from the silence. He took himself in hand when his baser urges reared up. He avoided others as though his life depended on it. As though  _ their _ lives depended on it. 

Eventually, he started to allow himself the luxury of buying a whore to bury himself in for the night. An exchange of coin for services, nothing more. He picked the ones who were too downtrodden or desperate to properly fear him. He would close his eyes so he didn’t have to see their faces, try not to hear the beating of their hearts, try not to smell the sweat and oil, or the herbs they ingested to get through a night with him.

He survived, as best he knew how. Alone. Unwanted. It was better that way.

Until Jaskier.

***

The bard had to be a dimwit. That’s what Geralt had decided. Jaskier wasn’t afraid, and he should be. He wasn’t wary, or cautious, or even quietly resentful as most humans tended to be. He was cocky, and determined, and full of fanciful ideas about the world. Even after Geralt had punched him in the gut for bringing up Renfri’s death - not as hard as he might have, because always, he was aware of the fragility of humans - Jaskier seemed nothing but eager to tag along. 

It was driving Geralt mad.

The last thing he needed was the death of an idiot on his hands. An innocent idiot. Melitele above, the bard couldn’t have seen more than two decades in the world. He was probably younger than Geralt had been when he’d first set out from Kaer Morhen almost a century ago, and certainly nowhere near as prepared. And even with all his training, that first year had been so brutal…

He turned his mind sharply away. He had a job to do, coin to collect. Obviously there wasn’t a  _ devil _ stealing grain. Likely it was something far less nefarious, maybe even a human thief. Geralt couldn’t bother himself with more strong-arm tactics to turn the foolish bard away, but there would be no grand adventures to be had, and eventually he would wander off.

Of course, Geralt couldn’t have forseen that the ‘devil’ was a Sylvan who would make them captive to elves.

Even in the face of imminent death, Jaskier had seemed perfectly content to trust that Geralt would save him. Worse, Geralt felt  _ obligated _ to find a way to keep the idiot alive. Jaskier clearly didn’t have the self-preservation to survive on his own, and that meant he was in Geralt’s care.

It was only by luck, and bravado, and maybe a little shared hatred for humanity, that they managed to walk out of that cave alive. As they went down the road, headed for the next town, Jaskier was already composing a wildly inaccurate ballad about their adventure.

Jaskier was pushy, irreverent, too loud, and didn’t have enough common sense to fill a walnut shell. But maybe, there was a small part of Geralt that appreciated being near someone who wasn’t terrified of him. Who didn’t despise him. Who seemed to think he was some kind of hero. It was… nice. Just a little.

Still, Geralt would get rid of him at the next town.

***

***

_ Jaskier’s Journal: _

_ Holy fuck, the man is huge. Definitely ballad worthy. _

_ ~eyes like jewels, suffers no fools… _

_ Need something about his arse in there, too. _

_ * _

_ ~ From when the White Wolf fought _

_ A silver tongued devil _

_ His army of elves _

_ At his hooves did they travel _

_ Definitely White Wolf. The big lug will despise it! Haha! _

_ * _

_ Does the man never bathe? I’ve been dying for a glimpse of him shirtless... _

***

***

The shivering woke him up.

Witchers were light sleepers, as a lot. They had to be. Geralt, in particular, had always struggled with it. He and  _ rest  _ were not always on speaking terms. Which was partly why he was so irritated to find that it was Jaskier who woke him once he’d finally, finally fallen asleep.

They had the luxury of a fire in these woods, but it had burned low. The bard had followed after Geralt with nothing but the clothes on his back and his instrument. The ridiculous doublet he was wearing wasn’t meant for chill nights. He had no bed roll or blankets.

It wasn’t Geralt’s problem. In fact, this was a good thing. The more uncomfortable Jaskier was, the more he would realize just how ill conceived this idea was. He’d gladly be waving Geralt goodbye at the next town when he realized just how difficult life was on the road.

Still, Geralt wished he would  _ shut up. _ His teeth were chattering, and Geralt could hear every shudder that ran through his poorly-muscled frame. At the very least, it would be better if he complained. He’d certainly done enough of it during their day of travel. The sun was so bright, and the road too dusty, and there were stones in his shoes, and every other tiny inconvenience had been prattled on about at great length. Geralt had tuned out the annoying chatter.

This was worse. It wasn’t even that damn cold, but Jaskier was laying there, on the other side of the fire, miserable. He curled up on himself in a vain attempt to conserve body heat, and Geralt stifled a growl. 

What was he supposed to do? Invite the bard under his blankets? He could easily imagine how well _ that  _ would go over. Either Jaskier would be disgusted by the idea, or he’d think that Geralt was getting him close to ravage him. It was one thing to travel with a Witcher to write a few songs. It was another thing entirely to  _ lay _ with one.

Angry, Geralt pushed to his feet and dumped his blanket unceremoniously on Jaskier’s shivering body.

Jaskier blinked up at him, struggling to see in the dark. “Geralt?”

“Sleep, bard. If you can’t keep up tomorrow, I’m leaving you behind.”

Either Jaskier was too tired, or too cold, to argue. He pulled the blanket, warm with Geralt’s body heat, around himself. From where he was standing at the edge of the clearing where they’d made camp, Geralt heard him take in a deep breath, exhale with relish, and then drop immediately into sleep.

Oh, how Geralt envied him that ability.

***

They arrived at the next town late the following afternoon. It wasn’t actually much of a town, more of a collection of farm houses surrounding a shoddy building that served as inn and tavern. Still, Jaskier was clearly glad to see it.

“Thank the gods,” he muttered, heaving a dramatic sigh.

Geralt just rolled his eyes as Jaskier rushed toward the sliver of civilization. He followed at a more sedate pace. Despite his lack of sleep the night before, he could have pushed on - and would have preferred to. If this town needed a Witcher’s services, he’d have heard of it back in Posada. An unneeded Witcher was an unwelcome one. Not to mention, he’d given Filavandrel all the coin he’d gotten from Posada, leaving him with the paltry few Ducats he’d started with. It certainly wouldn’t be enough for a grudging room.

By the time he settled Roach at the hitching post and went in, Jaskier was already seated cheekily atop the bar, an ale beside him and Filavandrel’s lute in his hands. He was plucking out the tune of a merry drinking song, and the tavern’s patrons were singing along.

Geralt scanned the notice board by the door as he went to the bar. No contracts posted there, not that he was surprised. He layed a single Ducat on the battered bar and was given a mug in return, accompanied by a scowl. Geralt ignored it and took his drink to a secluded corner, out of the way, but still in sight should anyone decide they could use his services.

He spent nearly an hour there, listening to Jaskier’s bawdy renditions of well known songs, watching the minstrel make eyes at a pretty barmaid, and occasionally have coins tossed his direction. Jaskier caught each of them with a wink and a word of thanks. It was a far cry from the dismal performance he’d given in Posada. Geralt wondered if he was trying harder, or if these people were just more desperate for any kind of entertainment.

Either way, he’d had enough. Jaskier was clearly settled in. Even as Geralt stood, the barmaid was whispering in Jaskier’s ear and giggling, a sure sign there would be no shivering for him that night. Geralt, on the other hand, knew better than to ask for a place to sleep. He’d find a spot to shelter for the night further up the road. Tomorrow, he’d put this little town well behind him and forget he’d ever heard the bard’s name.

He was swinging up into Roach’s saddle when the tavern door burst open again, and Jaskier hurried out.

“Geralt!” He hunched over to catch his breath, holding up a finger to get Geralt to wait. “Geralt, where are you going?”

“No work for a Witcher here.”

“Perhaps not, but surely even you have to rest once in a while. Get a room, then we can go seeking adventure in the morning, once we’ve rested like civilized folk.”

Geralt shook his head. He considered asking Jaskier how he was supposed to  _ pay _ for said room, or telling him that it was obvious these people wouldn’t welcome him even if he could pay, but decided against it. What was the point? “Goodbye, Jaskier.”

Jaskier made to reach for Roach’s bridle, but thought better of it. “You’re not  _ leaving  _ me here!” He planted his hands on his hips indignantly.

“Go back in, make some more coin, and fall into that barmaid’s bed at the end of the night. You’ll be far more comfortable here than following me.”

“I told you that I was coming-”

“This is the last town for at least a week,” Geralt said harshly. “You’ll either freeze or starve out there. I can’t be bothered to stop and bury your body when either your stupidity or your complete lack of supplies gets you killed. For fuck’s sake, you don’t even have a bedroll!”

Jaskier blinked at him, obviously surprised at the outburst. “I… I think that’s the most you’ve ever spoken to me directly.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and tugged lightly on Roach’s reigns, turning her.

“Wait!” Jaskier stepped in his path, trusting Geralt not to simply run him over. Geralt growled. “Look, you’re… right, okay? I wasn’t ready for this. I’ve travelled a bit, and I thought I was ready, but you travel  _ much _ differently than I’m used to, and you’re right, I wasn’t even remotely prepared. But I  _ can _ be. Let’s just stay here tonight, and in the morning I’ll use some of the money I’ve made here to buy supplies. I promise I won’t even complain about the dirt or my shoes again once we’re on the road.”

Geralt snorted, and Jaskier had the grace to flush.

“Okay, I’ll try and complain  _ less _ about them. Just come back in, stay the night-”

_ Fuck. _ Geralt was too soft for his own good. “I’ll make camp up the road and wait for you an hour after sunrise. If you’re not there by then, I’ll leave without you,” he conceded grudgingly.

Jaskier huffed. “What is it with you and sleeping outdoors? Are you allergic to having a roof over your head?”

Geralt snarled at him, already regretting the promise he’d just made. “Did you  _ forget _ that I gave the money from that last contract to the elves? Or do you think the  _ good people _ in there are just going to give rooms to those they see as monsters for  _ free?” _

“Oh.” Jaskier just blinked at him, shocked. “Oh, I hadn’t thought…”

Geralt gave the reigns another tug, steering Roach around Jaskier. “One hour past dawn, bard, or I’m leaving without you.” He rode on without looking back.

***

The sun rose, and Geralt waited.

He must be a masochist, to be allowing himself to believe that Jaskier would actually buy proper supplies and rejoin him. For, even a little,  _ wanting _ that.

He should be grateful that the sun was inching higher in the sky and there was no sign of the irritating bard coming up the road. He should be relieved. One less burden. It wasn’t as though he needed the hassle of trying to keep the idiot alive.

And yet…

Growling, Geralt gathered up his supplies and settled them back in Roach’s saddle bags. It was better this way. It wasn’t as though he’d actually  _ liked _ the bard. And it was good to be reminded now, of the unreliability and fickleness of humans, rather than after they’d traveled together for a while. It wouldn’t do for Geralt to start thinking that he could actually have a human companion. He’d already learned that lesson once. He didn’t need to learn it again.

Still, he found his jaw tight and his brows together in a scowl as he tamped the fire out and swung himself up into the saddle. Godsdamned bard.

“Geralt!”

_ Fuck. _

Geralt turned to see Jaskier running full tilt toward him, arm held up as though that would help him catch hold and keep Geralt from leaving. There was a surprisingly loaded pack on his back, and his hair was wild, his breath huffing out as he staggered up to Geralt’s side. “I’m - here,” he panted, fingers grasping a stirrup. “I made it!”

“Hm.”

Jaskier looked up at him, beaming. His cheeks were flushed and he just looked so damn  _ pleased _ with himself.

Something warmed in Geralt’s chest, and he scowled even harder, angry at himself. He should  _ not _ be glad that Jaskier had actually showed up. He made a point to look down at where Jaskier was still holding the stirrup, and Jaskier drew back, as though he hadn’t realized he’d been clinging on. Geralt nudged Roach’s flanks, and she started walking. Jaskier fell into step beside them.

“So… Aren’t you going to ask what supplies I’ve bought?”

“No.”

“You wound me, Geralt,” Jaskier said dramatically, hand to his chest. “I’d almost think you don’t care!”

“I don’t.”

Jaskier huffed, either disbelieving, or offended. Still, it wasn’t enough to silence him. “You’re going to be impressed. I spent the rest of the evening prising out of the tavern’s occupants what items were necessary for a rough life on the road - between songs, of course - and I’ve amassed a prefect collection of supplies. A bedroll, obviously, complete with woolen blanket, a waterskin, which I’m  _ quite _ happy to have after suffering cottonmouth most of yesterday, a flint and tinder, not that I’ll need it with you and your Witcher magic poof thing, but in case we get seperated I’ll be prepared-”

Geralt tuned him out after that. He was, actually, mildly impressed. It seemed just as likely that the fool would have bought silk sheets and fancy scented soaps for supplies rather than real necessities. So, maybe he was slightly less of an idiot than Geralt had originally thought. Maybe he would be able to survive out on the road for longer than a fortnight.

_ “-kicked in the chest; he’s a friend of humanity, so give him the rest-” _

“What the fuck are you singing?” Geralt asked when he realized Jaskier had long since stopped listing all the things he’d stuffed in his pack and moved onto a song. It was the melody he’d been humming incessantly since they’d left Posada. Apparently he’d stopped stringing random phrases together and turned it into an actual ballad - painting Geralt as a ‘champion.’

Jaskier beamed up at him. “My newest epic, sure to be the crowning achievement of my bardic career. I call it  _ Toss A Coin to Your Witcher. _ Do you like it?”

“None of that is true.”

“I  _ told _ you, I took artistic license with the story. I can hardly say  _ That’s my epic tale, our champion prevailed, talked the elves into leaving on their own, now pour him some ale. _ It doesn’t have even remotely the same ring to it.”

Geralt wanted to tell him that no matter how he sang it, no one was going to be gladly pouring ale for a Witcher, but just shook his head. Let the bard sing his silly song. Soon enough he’d learn that Geralt would never be considered a  _ friend of humanity. _

***

When Geralt returned from hunting, Jaskier was sitting proudly on his bedroll, setting up a small pot over the fire. There was a pile of mushrooms and roots beside him. “What’ve you got there, rabbit? Oh, lovely. Tonight, we feast on rabbit stew, courtesy of your fine hunting skills, and  _ my _ pot. Look, it’s got a lid and everything!” He showed off the lid like it was some rare treasure.

Geralt huffed out a laugh and then started a little, surprised by the sound. When was the last time he’d  _ laughed? _

“Come now, relieve those creatures of their innards so that I can cook them with these morsels I’ve gathered, and-”

“Those are poisonous,” Geralt pointed out, gesturing to the mushroom Jaskier was holding.

Jaskier dropped it like it had burned him, and looked, betrayed, at the rest of the pile. “Is  _ everything _ out here trying to kill us?”

Geralt just shook his head and picked through the pile, removing the bad ones and leaving the edible ones for Jaskier to cut and add to the pot. When he was finished, he settled down beside the fire and popped one of them into his mouth.

Jaskier gaped at him.

“You just said those are poisonous!”

“Yes, but they’re not going to kill  _ me.” _

After another moment of staring, Jaskier went back to cutting the tubers, muttering about the unfairness of it all. Geralt rolled his eyes, ate the rest of the poisonous mushrooms, and started skinning the rabbits.

***

***

_ Jaskier’s Journal: _

_ ~ Man’s best friend isn’t his dog _

_ And isn’t is cock _

_ It’s a warm bedroll on chill nights _

_ And an iron cooking pot! _

_ Cock and pot is a cheap rhyme, but common folk will love it. It’s also fucking true. I want to be buried with this pot.  _

_ * _

_ Does he realize he gets this stupidly sexy smirk on his face when he does something that should be impossible? Also, how unfair is it that he can eat poison mushrooms like sweeties, but if I eat my meat a little too raw, I get a bellyache from the devil himself??? _


	2. Chapter 2

Travelling together on the open road is, perhaps, the only true way to get the measure of a man. You see them at their absolute worst, exhausted from a long day, irritable from rising early and the dismal meals, filthy and stinking of their own sweat. You learn their limits, physically and mentally. You learn their most private habits. Do they snore, do they chew with their mouth open, do they talk to themselves?

After nearly a week travelling with Jaskier, Geralt knew all these things about him. He knew Jaskier was obsessive about chewing bark to clean his teeth. That he was terrified of snakes. That he did, indeed, snore - though he denied it vehemently.

And somehow, he was genuinely not afraid of Geralt.

Not when he came back from a hunt, covered in blood and carrying a carcass, not when he snapped and snarled, his patience stretched too thin, not when he came up on Jaskier soundlessly and startled him.

It was… strange. And not unwelcome.

There were others in the world who weren’t afraid of Geralt. Sorceresses, mages, fellow Witchers, but never, never humans. Even the ones who spouted outrage or threats were almost always covering fear with bravado. 

But not Jaskier. And to make matters worse, he was becoming a halfway decent travelling companion. He was  _ learning. _ Each day, he became a little stronger, a little better, a little more competent. He could identify which plants were poisonous, he could gather wood dry enough to burn without smoking, he could even set a snare, though he had yet to catch anything with one.

Despite his incessant chattering - or maybe partly because of it, if Geralt was being really, truly honest with himself - Geralt was beginning to think that Jaskier might be someone he could travel with for a long time to come. 

And then he had to go and fuck it all up.

***

It was the scent that woke him. Geralt had actually managed to fall asleep, a feat in itself, and he had been dreaming about fucking a faceless prostitute. The man wasn’t anything like the others Geralt had bought for the night. He didn’t stare up at him with blank, listless eyes, didn’t stink of fear, or of mind altering herbs. He was quiet, silent to all but a Witcher’s keen ears, but Geralt could hear the soft, breathless moans. And the  _ smell. _ Pure arousal. The sharp salt and spice of human bodily fluids. Geralt knew if he reached out, he would find the tip of the whore’s cock slick with it.

Another whiff of the scent burst through Geralt’s nose, nearly making him groan, and then he realized-

He wasn’t  _ dreaming _ that smell.

His eyes shot open.

The almost inaudible sounds hadn’t been part of his dream either. Across the fire, slightly further removed than usual, Jaskier was moving under his blanket. His heart was hammering, his breath coming in short pants, and he was reeking with the smell of sex and lust.

He was pleasuring himself, right there for Geralt to see.

A side effect of such a slow heart rate was that it took longer for blood to pool in any one particular area on a Witcher, cocks included, but Geralt didn’t think he’d ever become so hard, so fast. It had been a long time since he’d taken himself in hand - too long - and the urge he felt to leap on Jaskier and fuck him into the dirt was overwhelming. It was savage and animalistic, and Geralt was wholly unprepared for the force of it. He’d never felt such desperate lust for a human.

Was it simply proximity to Jaskier pleasuring himself? That Geralt hadn’t had release in a long time, and Jaskier was convenient? That he found Jaskier attractive? Or, was it that his treacherous heart whispered that there was a chance, the slimmest, wildest chance, that if he gave into this lust, Jaskier wouldn’t run screaming in terror from him?

It didn’t matter. It  _ had _ been too long, and Jaskier was a banquet set before a starving man, and yes, Geralt could admit that the bard was appealing, physically. But he  _ would _ run if Geralt gave into the desire to rip the blanket away and have him. Jaskier had talked about falling into bed with men as much as he had with women, but a  _ Witcher? _ Geralt wasn’t even human, and he certainly wasn’t anything like the soft bellied, soft spoken lovers Jaskier took.

Jaskier travelled with him - that didn’t mean he was stupid enough to want to  _ fuck _ him.

Geralt rolled away and breathed shallowly through his mouth to try and stifle the smell as Jaskier got closer to climax. Geralt would control himself. He wouldn’t let himself be a beast, ruled by his desires. He wouldn’t even touch his cock, though when Jaskier gave a soft groan and came, Geralt had to clench his fists to keep from doing so. He wouldn’t think of how Jaskier would feel, body pliant from his orgasm, ready to be fucked open, soft, warm…

It was a good thing that the next town was only a day away, and that they had a problem with drowners, because Geralt was going to need the coin. A whore, maybe even two, would take care of this issue, and then he wouldn’t ever think about fucking Jaskier again.

***

There wasn’t a proper brothel for Geralt to go to, but he’d been pointed in the direction of a red light district of sorts. The drowners had been simple enough to clear out, and the pay was good. The innkeeper, who had offered the contract, was so grateful that he’d even given Geralt and Jaskier a room for the night as well. Geralt might have grumbled about sharing, except he hoped to spend most of the night fucking the thought of Jaskier out of his head, plus he was fairly certain that Jaskier would find some star-eyed maiden to woo into a bed.

Geralt had the decency to douse the drowner guts off himself before seeking out the little line of shacks that housed the prostitutes. Even still, all the women went back inside their hovels at the sight of him. All except one.

She wasn’t beautiful, and she was far too thin, but she appeared clean and plastered on a smile as he approached. Despite the fact that he could see her fear plainly, she held her ground.

“How much?”

“Ten.”

Geralt raised a brow. It wasn’t the most he’d paid for a night with a whore, but far more than he’d expected from one not in an upscale brothel. Her face flushed.

“Five,” she whispered, voice edging into desperation.

He almost turned her down. It was painfully obvious she was terrified of him. She likely didn’t want anything to do with him. And despite how monstrous humans thought Witchers to be, Geralt had no interest in sex with someone who didn’t want it. But there were no other choices to be had, and clearly she needed the coin.

If she could relax enough to take him in, he would make sure she enjoyed herself. He knew enough about female bodies to do that much, at least. He nodded his agreement to the price, and she led him inside.

There was nothing in the front room but a bed and side table on a dirt floor. To his left was a door that he presumed led to a second room and rear door. He unbuckled his swords and set them on the ground, confident he could handle anyone that might come in while they were occupied.

The woman went to the bed and stripped her clothing off with methodical efficiency. There was a little pot of oil on the table, and she quickly applied some to herself. She was trying to be discreet about it, but she needn't have bothered. This was the reason why Geralt only took humans to bed that were professionals. They expected the worst, and prepared for it. They took the precautions of oils or salves, and weren’t likely to cringe at the sight of his cock.

With no modesty, Geralt stripped his clothes off and went to the bed. He was only half hard, and the woman’s eyes lingered on his groin, but she didn’t balk.

“Turn over,” he told her gruffly. Normally, he would have taken more time with her. He would have touched her face to face, using his hands or even his mouth to coax her to acceptance of him - but the memory of Jaskier in the woods filled Geralt’s head. He just needed to drive it out with mindless fucking.

She complied, rolling to her stomach and then rising up to her knees. Geralt slipped two fingers into her, checking to make sure she could take him. She gasped and tensed at the intrusion, but her body relaxed when he curled his fingers and let his thumb stray down to massage her clit. Satisfied, he pulled his hand back and lined himself up. He shifted forward fractionally, and the head of his cock sank into her. She gasped again at the much larger ingress, and he stilled to allow her to adjust. He reached around her to continue rubbing against her, tempting her body to accept him. When she unclenched, he slid deeper.

It didn’t take long until he’d bottomed out inside her and could start truly fucking her. His hands gripped her hips to hold her steady as he drove inside her. He wanted nothing more than to let himself go and slake his lust as quickly as possible, but he knew her fragile body couldn’t handle that. He continued thrusting with measured force, chasing his release while being careful not to harm her.

She continued to open for him, body becoming fully pliant under him when she realized that he wasn’t going to hurt her. Her hand even slipped down to touch herself while he fucked her, and Geralt rumbled in satisfaction at that. He could already imagine the way she would clench around him as she came on his cock. There was no reason to think of Jaskier, not when he had this, when he could bury himself inside a welcoming whore with no complications, no doubts-

The rear door to the house opened, and someone entered the back room. Instantly, Geralt was off the bed and had his sword drawn. The woman moved with incredible speed for a human and threw herself forward against Geralt, between him and the door, as if she could stop him from getting by. She looked up at him with the terrified desperation of someone who knows they cannot win a fight but is willing to give their life to try.

The sound of a child crying came from behind the door.

With both hands against Geralt’s chest, her eyes not leaving his, the woman called, “go back outside!” Her words were shrill with panic.

“Aiden’s hungry, mama. He won’t stop crying.” The voice was achingly young. Geralt’s stomach clenched.

“I’ll be able to buy food when I’m done. Go back outside, Illaria!”

The girl sniffled, but apparently did as she was told. Geralt could hear her footsteps across the floor, and then the rear door pulled closed. 

The woman let out a slow breath and looked down at Geralt’s erection, which had flagged. “Please don’t go,” she whispered, begging without shame. “You can do whatever you want to me.”

Geralt just stared at her. She’d been terrified that he would kill her children. She was willing to let him do gods-knew-what to her in order to feed them. He should have been disgusted at what she thought of him. It should have angered him. Or, he should have felt nothing at all. He should have been able to put her back onto the bed, fuck her till he came, leave the five Ducats on the table, and walk away without looking back.

He couldn’t name what, exactly, he felt instead. Pity, sorrow, frustration, even admiration. He had absolutely no interest in bedding her, though. He silently pulled on his trousers and shirt while she fretted behind him, then handed her a fistful of coins. It was more than half what he’d gotten from clearing out the drowners - far, far more than the price they’d agreed on. It was a stupid thing to do. Geralt didn’t know when the next contract would come along, and it wasn’t as though he could count on human generosity when he was in need. But he couldn’t just turn a blind eye to the woman’s plight.

He picked up his swords and left the hovel while she was still gaping at the money he’d handed her. Ten steps up the road, he heard her door open. “Witcher!”

He looked back. She was standing in the doorway, a blanket clutched over her nakedness, her eyes bright with tears. “Thank you.”

Geralt inclined his head at her and turned away, continuing up the road back to the inn.

***

Jaskier had every occupant of the inn’s tavern singing the chorus of  _ Toss a Coin _ when Geralt walked in. He grimaced and went quickly through. The room they’d been offered was up the stairs and at the end of the hall, thankfully far enough away that Geralt wouldn’t have to hear Jaskier’s singing all night. That was the  _ last _ thing he needed. His insides felt uncomfortably twisted, and he didn’t need to add to his turmoil by thinking about the infuriatingly attractive fucking bard. It was some small comfort that the events of the night had effectively squashed any lust he’d felt, but he didn’t see the need to exacerbate the situation.

He stripped down and settled himself onto the bed. What he wanted was a decent night’s sleep, and then to get back on the road. With hard travel, he could make it to Leyda in a fortnight. He’d be able to take a contract or two there, and they had a proper brothel. If Jaskier decided to continue travelling with him, Geralt would just ignore the situation until Leyda and deal with his urges then.

There was a small part of him that considered just taking himself in hand now. It wouldn’t truly sate him, but it would take the edge off. Tempting - but not worth the risk of Jaskier walking in on him-

And he was grateful that he’d held off when Jaskier did walk in a moment later. He slung himself into the chair by the fire, grinning. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t even pause to appreciate what may have been the best performance of my life! Did you see them, Geralt? I had them eating out of the palm of my hand!” He held up his hand and shook it. “It was a  _ triumph!” _

Geralt grunted.

“And what happened with you?” Jaskier asked suddenly, as if remembering that he was not, in fact, the center of the universe. “I thought you were going to buy yourself some company for the night.”

Geralt considered how to answer. Not with the truth, obviously. The story was too long, and it wasn’t a pleasant one, and Jaskier would probably do something stupid like try to turn it into a song portraying Geralt as some sort of philanthropist.

“I did,” he finally said with a shrug.

Jaskier cocked an eyebrow and snickered. “And you’re back already?” Geralt rolled his eyes when Jaskier laughed again. “Well, far be it from  _ me  _ to judge. After all, we’ve been on the road for an awfully long time, and I’m sure you were… pent up.” He grinned, and Geralt fought the urge to throw something at his head.

“Fuck off, Jaskier.”

Something in his tone seemed to clue Jaskier in on Geralt’s mood, and his smile faded. “Well, whatever happened, you’d better budge up, because I don’t fancy sleeping on the floor tonight.”

That was exactly what Geralt  _ didn’t _ need - Jaskier pressed up against him all night. “You looked well on your way to finding someone else's bed to share tonight. Go charm one of your admirers.”

“If you must know, the lady I was wooing ended up going off with the gentleman I also had my eye on. So unless you want a grumpy companion tomorrow, I’d suggest making some room under those lovely looking blankets.”

Geralt growled, then kicked the blankets onto the floor, keeping only the linen sheet for himself. “Plenty of room for you under them now.” He ignored Jaskier’s look of appalled shock, rolled over, and closed his eyes.

“Of all the- Geralt, I am  _ not _ sleeping on the floor! Geralt! I know you’re not asleep yet! I know you can hear me! GEralt!”

Geralt tuned him out. For a moment, he thought the impudent bard might just try to crawl into bed with him anyway, but then he heaved a huge sigh and settled himself on the floor, arranging the blankets in a pallet by the fire. Relieved, Geralt slowed his breathing and tried to sleep.

***

***

_ Jaskier’s Journal: _

_ He definitely didn’t hear me jerking off. There’s no way. He was ASLEEP. _

_ Oh gods who am I kidding, he definitely heard me jerking off. _

_ Fuck. _

_ * _

_ IT’S A HIT! I knew Toss A Coin would be a triumph!! Who is the best bard in all the land? Oh, that’s right, it’s me. _

_ * _

_ I am furious with that overgrown idiot. Or, at least, I want to be. How dare he relegate me to the floor after all the travelling we’ve been doing? So we would have had to cuddle up a bit to both fit in the bed… you wouldn’t have heard me complaining!  _

_ I do wonder what happened earlier. He headed off like he was going to fuck his way through every whore the town had to offer, but he didn’t come back like a man who’s been thoroughly satisfied. He was defensive and… ashamed maybe? Upset? Something other than fucking happened that’s for sure, but of course he won’t deign to share it with me.  _

_...I wonder who hates him more - the people he helps, or he himself? _


	3. Chapter 3

The next week proved nearly unbearable. Geralt was _pent up,_ and Jaskier was being a _considerate fucking bastard,_ and then Geralt had to go and get an eyefull of the bard’s absolutely _spectacular_ ass.

They’d only been on the road six days when Jaskier managed to stumble into poison oak while relieving himself. It would have been fucking hilarious if not for the fact that Jaskier was genuinely miserable.

Thankfully, the road travelled vaguely along the river, so it was easy enough for Geralt to find red clay as well as jewelweed to soothe the rash. He mixed the poultice together and then made himself scarce while Jaskier applied it. When he returned to camp an hour later with half a dozen fish, Jaskier was laying face down on his bedroll, trousers down around his knees, ass slathered in herbed clay - and moaning in bliss.

That would have been bad enough, but no. There just _had_ to be more. Geralt had been exceptionally careful to ignore the sinful noises, to not look at where the mud was drying and flaking off, only to get a solid eyeful of Jaskier’s bare ass the following morning when the bard launched himself in the river gleefully.

Geralt, who’d been kneeling at the water’s edge washing his face, was doused from the force of Jaskier’s splashing. He glowered. When Jaskier stood up in the thigh-deep water, Geralt _growled._ When Jaskier _bent over_ to dunk his head under the water, Geralt tried to turn around so fast that the normally graceful Witcher slipped in the mud and fell in the godsdamned river.

He came up sputtering and cursing. Jaskier had the audacity to _laugh._

The situation was clearly out of hand. Geralt made plans to give himself some relief the following night.

***

The clearing they stopped in to make camp the next night was one Geralt had stayed in before. It was a relatively sheltered area with plenty of dead wood for a fire. The real attraction of the spot, though, was a deep pool alongside the river, out of sight through the trees.

Geralt settled them down for the night in record time. He didn’t speak a single word to Jaskier as he scarfed down his dinner, cleaned his armour, and then laid down with his back to the fire, feigning sleep. Jaskier grumbled about the silent treatment, but didn’t seem to think anything was amiss. A few minutes later, he gave up and laid down early as well. Geralt counted his heartbeats for quarter of an hour. Then, when Jaskier was deeply asleep, Geralt slipped from camp and down to the river.

He discarded his clothes at the water’s edge and stepped in. It was frigid, but he could handle it. After a moment to adjust, he went deeper into the pool, until the water came up over his shoulders. All around him, the soft hum of night sounds droned on. An owl screeched. Three deer made their way through the forest. A skunk rustled through the underbrush. Geralt allowed himself to tune it out. 

His hand travelled down his body, gripping his already hardening cock. He’d planned to jerk himself as quickly and efficiently as possible, but reconsidered. If there was pay in Leyda, he could visit the brothel and work off his lust, but he couldn’t be certain of a contract. And since it wasn’t as though some human woman would fall into bed with him without an exchange of coin, he didn’t want to bank all his hopes on finding someone to fuck in Leyda.

This was likely the best situation Geralt could guarantee himself. He might as well indulge a little.

There had been a sorceress that he’d bedded in Temeria a few years before. She’d been as beautiful as she was brash, and Geralt called up the memory of her eagerly sucking his cock while he stroked himself. She’d been straddling his face while she sucked him, grinding shamelessly against his mouth. _Fuck,_ the sounds she’d made as she took her pleasure…

The memory shifted to another time he’d heard someone moan while he used his mouth on them. A winter’s night at Kaer Morhen, full of strong liquor and relaxed for the first time in months, Eskel’s cock edging into his throat. He’d swallowed down his fellow Witcher’s release, and then Eskel had returned the favor.

How would Jaskier’s cock feel on his tongue, Geralt wondered. Would he chatter incessantly through the whole thing, as he seemed to do every other waking moment, or would he finally be stricken silent? Once he’d relaxed with his first climax, would he let Geralt part his thighs and fuck him, or did he prefer his partners to take the passive position?

Geralt could so easily imagine Jaskier on his back, skin shining with sweat, his cock spent but twitching back to life as Geralt opened him with oil slicked fingers…

_Fuck._

He _refused_ to come while thinking of fucking Jaskier. The entire gods-forsaken point of this was to get his mind _off_ the bard! He tried to force his mind back to Coral, to how tight her cunt had been, how breathless her moans in his ear-

“Geralt?”

_Mother fucking son of a whore!_

“Fuck _off,_ Jaskier,” Geralt hissed. Jaskier stood at the edge of the trees, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He blinked and yawned, peering through the darkness to where Geralt was mostly submerged.

“What’re you doing?”

“Fuck. Off.” Geralt repeated, teeth clenched.

“Are you alright? Your cheeks almost look a little-” He stopped, realization suddenly hitting him. A grin stole over his face. “Oooh, I see what’s going on!” Rather than do the decent thing and allow Geralt his privacy, Jaskier planted his hands on his hips and laughed. “How in the world can you manage to do _that_ in _there?_ That water must be freezing!”

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s tenuous grasp on his temper started to slip. He’d been frustrated before, but he was becoming furious. Jaskier was the cause of this problem, and now he seemed hell bent on making matters worse. Geralt’s patience was worn thin.

“I mean, come on, that _can’t_ be comfortable! Why not just have a go under your blanket, rather than freeze your cock off out-”

“Because _some_ of us don’t feel the need to broadcast what we’re doing to the entire fucking world! Just because _you_ don’t have the self control to stop yourself from humping your blankets every night-”

“Hey, woah, someone’s obviously a bit touchy. I didn’t realize the things I do in the privacy of my bedroll offended your delicate sensibilities.” Jaskier let out a huff.

“I’m not offended,” Geralt snapped, “I’m _irritated!_ I don’t need to be kept awake with your fumbling when I can’t even get-”

“Oh pipe down, you _just_ bedded someone a few days ago, you can’t be that desperate to come again.”

Geralt was so furious he wasn’t thinking. He stalked toward Jaskier, fists shaking with the need to either punch him in the face or pin him down in the dirt and- “I _didn’t_ get to fucking finish, because the woman’s _starving children_ came in halfway through and suddenly I didn’t feel like fucking her while they sat outside and cried from hunger! So yes, I am that fucking desperate! Unless you’re offering _your_ services, I suggest you get the hell away from me, Jaskier!”

Jaskier blinked at him in shock, mouth slightly agape. Geralt had risen out of the water by then, and Jaskier’s eyes dropped to his cock. He gulped.

“Uhm, w-what if I am?”

_“What?”_

Geralt stormed past him, but froze when Jaskier’s next word hit him.

“Offering.”

Geralt’s entire body _throbbed_ with anticipation. He _wanted._ He forced himself to continue toward camp without looking back. “You have no idea what the hell you’re saying.”

Jaskier followed him at a trot. “Excuse you, I do too. We’re just talking about _sex,_ Geralt. I’m here, you’re here, we’re both consenting adults. Why not?”

At the edge of the clearing, Geralt finally allowed himself to turn, anger still blazing in his eyes. “Why not? I’m not allowing you to make a martyr of yourself at my expense. You’re _human,_ Jaskier! There’s a reason I don’t fuck humans except whores, and it’s not just because they’re the only ones who’ll have me. Do you have any idea how easily I could crush your bones? How easily I could fuck you till you _bleed?_ Till you _break?”_

“But you won’t.”

Geralt’s breath caught. The simple words, spoken with such conviction, hit like a physical blow.

“You don’t know that-”

“Yes I do,” Jaskier said dismissively. His casual attitude about the situation was infuriating Geralt further.

“Look at me, Jaskier-”

“I am.”

“No, fucking _look at me!_ I am not some lily-handed lord’s son. I will take you and fuck you to within an inch of your life, and it _won’t be enough,_ so I’ll do it again.”

Jaskier sucked in his breath sharply. Geralt could see him clearly in the dark, and Jaskier’s pupils dilated. From fear? Or was it possible the bard was just stupid enough to be _aroused_ by Geralt’s threat?

“Prove it.”

There were good reasons that Geralt didn’t bed humans this way. Better reasons not to fuck his travelling companion. But the best reason of all was that Geralt felt dangerously out of control. He’d never accidentally killed anyone he’d slept with, but he had vivid memories of bruises left on prostitutes’ skin, the sharp scent of blood when his teeth sank too deep… And those had been when he wasn’t sleep deprived and sexually frustrated and in the midst of a rage.

Jaskier pulled his shirt up over his head and let it drop beside his bedroll. Very pointedly, he rummaged through his bag and withdrew a small amphora of oil. He tossed it at Geralt, who automatically snatched it out of the air.

This was, without a doubt, a terrible idea.

Geralt didn’t care anymore.

“Get on your knees,” he whispered harshly.

Jaskier obeyed without question, and something in Geralt, something animalistic and primal, purred with satisfaction.

“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve imagined shutting you up this way?” He stepped forward, looking down at Jaskier with eyes that shined preditorially in the moonlight. A soft whimper reached his ears. He might have paused, except that Jaskier’s mouth opened when Geralt took another step closer. 

Jaskier _leaned toward him,_ as if he was _eager_ for it. Geralt laced his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and urged him closer. He didn’t tug, didn’t force, but his intent was clear. Jaskier went willingly. There was no time for teasing licks. Geralt’s hand kept steady, urging Jaskier to engulf him, taking a quarter of Geralt’s length into his mouth. On his own, Jaskier took him ever so slightly deeper.

And then he began to suck.

Geralt might not care for the bard’s songs, but he’d never again be able to say that Jaskier didn’t have a talented mouth. By gods, he did sinful things with his tongue, keeping his lips stretched tightly around Geralt’s girth. What he couldn’t fit into his mouth, he stroked with both hands.

It was good, so fucking good, but it wasn’t enough.

With a groan, Geralt pushed him back. Jaskier _pouted_ when he let go, as though he’d have been happy to stay like that, sucking Geralt’s cock, for the rest of time.

“On your back.”

Jaskier scrambled to obey, shucking his trousers along the way. When he was settled, Geralt was shocked to see him hard. The scent of arousal had been impossible to miss, but Geralt hadn’t thought it would be so visibly obvious. Jaskier _wanted_ this. Wanted _him._

Dropping to his knees between Jaskier’s parted thighs, Geralt yanked the cork of the amphora out with his teeth and coated his fingers liberally.

He knew he should slow down. He should stop, double check that Jaskier was actually _ready_ for this, not just excited by the idea of it. He should be gentle, should take his time making sure Jaskier felt nothing but pleasure. But blood was pounding in his ears and and his cock was throbbing and the edges of his vision were still tinted red with anger and frustration. He descended on Jaskier like a man starved. One hand shoved Jaskier’s knee up to his chest, the other dropped between his legs. Geralt’s mouth found the sensitive crook of Jaskier’s shoulder and he bit down, thrilling when Jaskier moaned and arched up to him.

Without warning, Geralt pushed one slick finger into him. Jaskier’s hands flew up to grip at Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt raised his head, expecting to be shoved away - but Jaskier just clung there. With a growl of satisfaction, he lowered his head again, mapping the length of Jaskier’s neck and jaw. He didn’t kiss, exactly, but left a trail of stinging bites that he soothed with his tongue. Jaskier turned his head to the side in invitation, and Geralt continued the sweet assault.

Another finger joined the first one, and Jaskier gasped at the intrusion. He knew how to relax his body, how to accept someone inside of him, but still, Geralt wasn’t a small man by any means. Despite the desperate need clawing inside him, Geralt wouldn’t try to fuck Jaskier till he’d stretched him with three fingers at least. Even nearly mindless with lust, he didn’t want to hurt Jaskier. Not like that.

He crooked his fingers and Jaskier shouted wordlessly, back arching up off the blanket. His hips bucked, and Geralt pinned him back down.

_“Geralt-_ please, fu-”

Geralt covered Jaskier’s mouth, cutting off his begging. He wasn’t ready, not yet, and if Geralt heard Jaskier say _fuck me,_ he was going to lose the last shred of his self control and fuck him that very moment. Instead, he put a third finger alongside the first two and bit down on Jaskier’s shoulder _hard._

Jaskier shouted again, but this time it sounded suspiciously like Geralt’s name.

Geralt felt like he was unravelling. Having what he wanted laid out before him should have soothed the possessive drive inside him, not made him _more_ desperate. But Geralt was losing every rational thought, shedding his inhibitions, giving in to the savage need to take and fuck and mark.

He pulled his hand back, gripped himself, and pushed forward.

It was fucking _bliss._

Jaskier was slick and hot and so godsdamned _tight._ A bitten off whimper reached Geralt’s ears, and he tore his eyes away from where his cock was spearing Jaskier open to look at his face.

It was twisted up, his teeth sunk into his lower lip, eyes squeezed shut. Some of Geralt’s madness bled away, and he shifted, putting his clean hand under Jaskier’s head, cradling it and urging him to open his eyes.

“Jaskier?” It was spoken roughly, barely even a question, but it was all Geralt could manage.

“Don’t- stop,” Jaskier panted. His eyes opened to slits, and he lifted his hips, sinking another inch of Geralt inside him. They both groaned. One heartbeat, two, three - Jaskier’s body relaxed, and Geralt continued to press forward.

When their skin was flush, Geralt’s hips pressed against the backs of Jaskier’s thighs, they both let out a breath. Then Jaskier said-

“Budge up a bit.”

Geralt looked down, surprised, and did as he was asked. Jaskier slid a hand between them and gripped his still-hard cock. He stroked himself, moaned, and Geralt went _wild._

He pulled back and _slammed_ forward, the hand that had been cradling Jaskier’s head slipping down to grasp the back of his neck and hold him in place by it. He let himself get lost in the pleasure, let himself take what he wanted. When just driving into Jaskier with the force of his hips wasn’t enough, he rose to his knees and gripped Jaskier’s waist, pulling Jaskier onto his cock the same time he thrust forward.

_He’ll bruise,_ some still-rational part of Geralt’s mind whispered.

_Good,_ the bestial part snarled back.

It was rough, and fast, and fucking perfect, and Geralt thought he could stay like that until the end of time. But then Jaskier started to tense, his body clamping down and his breath coming in gasps. Despite Geralt’s troubles with bed partners - or perhaps because of it - seeing them come undone beneath him was the ultimate sexual thrill. He could have continued driving into Jaskier for hours chasing his release, but seeing Jaskier’s skin flush, hearing his stuttering moan, _feeling_ him come from the inside out, drove Geralt to the brink. As soon as Jaskier’s hand went limp on his spent cock, Geralt let his weight fall forward, uncaring of the mess between them, and thrust brutally a dozen more times before spilling.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he realized Jaskier was struggling to breathe under his weight. Geralt abruptly rolled off of him, withdrawing from his body more quickly than was probably comfortable.

Jaskier groaned, but didn’t complain. He looked dazed, maybe a little hysterical. There was something like a smile tugging his mouth, but it was too wide, too slack, too _wrong._ Geralt had never seen that expression on his face before. It was worse, though, when his gaze travelled down the rest of Jaskier’s body.

There were bite marks along his neck and shoulders. Some were simple red marks, but others were already blossoming purple in the shape of Geralt’s teeth. When he shifted, Geralt could see that Jaskier’s back had been rubbed raw against the woolen blanket from the force of Geralt’s repeated thrusts. His hips were littered with bruises from Geralt’s fingers, the marks standing out starkly against his pale skin like an accusation.

He couldn’t smell any blood, but Geralt pushed Jaskier’s knee back up to his chest and inspected the tender skin of his ass. It was red, and looked sore, but didn’t seem damaged. That was one small favor, at least.

“GEralt!” Jaskier’s face cleared and he flushed, swatting Geralt away from his inspection. “I’m sure you’re _very_ proud of yourself, but a man must preserve at least a _little_ of his dignity-”

“Proud of myself?” Geralt asked it in a disbelieving whisper. “Look at you.”

Jaskier blinked, shocked at his derision, glanced down at himself, and for half a moment he looked _hurt._ Geralt wanted to flinch away from it. But then something changed, and Jaskier’s expression softened, grew tender. “Oh… _no,_ Geralt. Don’t do that.” It was a gentle entreaty, that tenderness in his voice as clear as it was in his eyes. Geralt couldn’t bear it. He grabbed his clothes - which Jaskier had thoughtfully brought from the river - and moved to his own bedroll.

For a while, it was quiet, and Geralt thought he would be spared having to say anything else. After all, what else was there to say? He’d warned the bard, and he’d proven himself to be the beast that everyone feared of him. But then Jaskier turned on his side, and his eyes met Geralt’s across the dying embers of the fire.

“Just to be one hundred percent clear, I _thoroughly_ enjoyed what we just did, and I shall make it my mission in life to do that again. Preferably sooner rather than later, though I’ll admit you are an _exceptionally_ vigorous man, so I’ll probably need a few days to recover if I ever want to be able to get in a saddle again. Unless you switch positions, because then-”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

“I’m just saying-”

Geralt rolled over and tuned him out. Obviously, Geralt’s initial impression of the bard had been correct. The man was an idiot. With no self-preservation. He went into taverns and let the patrons throw rotten food at him for a living, so it shouldn’t surprise Geralt that he would take someone to his bed and then ask for more when they tear into him like a vicious animal.

If Jaskier was too stupid to see that Geralt was dangerous, that he’d _hurt_ Jaskier, that he would _keep_ hurting him, given the chance, then Geralt would have to be the one to protect him. Even from himself.

***

***

_Jaskier’s Journal:_

_WHY IS SOMETHING IN THIS GODS FORSAKEN FOREST ALWAYS TRYING TO KILL ME???_

_Can one die from rash of the ass? It feels like one can. This is it. I’m dying. I’m going to die scratching my arse. Goodbye, cruel world._

_*_

_I’m going to compose an ode to red clay. A ballad. There will be poems. It may not be popular, it may not earn coin, but I’ll sing it to my dying day - which, happily, will not be any time soon because of butt rash. Thank Melitele. And thank Geralt, who knew exactly the cure for my ailing bottom._

_On a related note, I’m pretty sure I accidentally flashed him. Not just a bit of bum, but my whole whorl and fruit basket. I’m pretty sure of this, because when I bent over to wash my hair, he FELL IN THE RIVER. Geralt does not fall. He does not trip. He does not slip. Apparently, unless you forget yourself and bend over right in front of him. Then he goes smack into the water. I’ll admit, I was a little proud of myself._

_*_

  * _When you find a Witcher wanking in the river, it is best to leave them alone unless you happen to want to bang them. If you DO want to bang them, then it seems that irritating the hell out of them while they are sexually frustrated is the way to make it happen._


  * _I KNEW something fishy happened in that last town. He comes across all growly and ‘don’t touch my horse’ and ‘I’m a big scary Witcher,’ but I guarantee he paid that prostitute before he left, and probably far more than her last dozen customers combined. Great soft hearted lug._


  * _Either the rumours about all Witchers being hung like horses is true, or Geralt is particularly blessed. Either way, WOW_


  * _The man fucks like a GOD. And not some slobbering god of wine, but a serious, badass god who is going to ride you until you go mad from pleasure. I smelled colors. I saw sounds. I transcended this mortal realm. I came so hard I almost got come in my eye. It was, quite possibly, the best sex of my life. And then._


  * _The self-deprecation in that man is over the top. I’ve got a few love bites and finger smudges, and he looks at me like I’ve just been drawn and quartered! I mean, I get it. All his life, people have feared him, have reviled him, have accused him of being as much a monster as the ones he hunts. And still, despite it all, he’s got one of the softest hearts I’ve ever met. So I can understand why he would feel like letting loose some of that passion, that unnatural strength, would make him react the way he did. He probably expected me to curse him for it. But, well, it’s time someone showed this man that he is more than what others say about him. Even if I never get the chance to fuck him again, people are going to respect Geralt of Rivea. I’ll sing his praises so far and wide that they don’t have any other choice._


  * _But I do hope that I get to fuck him again. Obviously._



  
  
  


_*_

_~Called a monster, treated as a beast_

_No one else sees the heart underneath_

_Lost souls in the night make an exchange_

_Tryst interrupted - terror at hand_

_The danger isn’t before you, lady of the night_

_Though hated and feared, he won’t turn from your plight_

_Food put in the mouths of babes_

_Not just one, but three lives saved_

_No praise, no glory, the lone wolf’s call_

_Perhaps, in the end, the most human of us all_

_*_

_~ Wipe it off your boots, wash it from your clothes_

_Grumble at it all day_

_But when your arse is red_

_And you wish you were dead_

_The answer is MUD, I say!_

_Maybe not my best work…._


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt didn’t ride Roach the next day. They moved at a much slower pace than Geralt would have ordinarily preferred, but he was trying to be… considerate. Every few minutes he cast surreptitious glances Jaskier’s direction. The bard didn’t seem to be suffering any significant damage from their night together, but it had certainly taken a toll. The state of his neck was enough to make Geralt’s insides feel tight.

Perhaps worst, Jaskier wasn’t chattering endlessly as he was usually wont to do. He seemed to be thinking, occasionally strumming his lute in half-conceived tunes. Geralt could imagine what he was thinking about. He’d put on a brave front the night before with his claim of wanting to fuck again, but obviously that wasn’t something he still felt in the light of day. He was likely planning to part ways with Geralt in Leyda. Geralt couldn’t blame him.

He tried to tell himself that not only was Jaskier entirely justified in wanting to leave him, but it was also for the best. He’d already proven, beyond a doubt, why he shouldn’t be travelling with a human. Why he shouldn’t become overly attached to one. Nothing good ever came from it.

Really, it would be better once Geralt had the bard off his hands.

And if the thought of that came with a feeling of emptiness in his chest, then he could ignore that, the way he’d been ignoring abandonment, and insults, and hurts, his entire life.

***

Camp that night was just as quiet as the day had been. Once Jaskier had his bedroll out, Geralt had pushed him - gently, but firmly - down onto it, and growled any time Jaskier tried to get up.

Geralt got the fire going, caught more fish for dinner, and refilled their waterskins. Jaskier studied him for a while, then turned back to his notebook to continue writing. Geralt hoped he wasn’t composing a song about being ravaged by a beast, but if he was, then it was probably only fair.

By the next morning, Jaskier seemed to have made peace with whatever decision he’d been contemplating the previous day. He was back to chattering aimlessly, though somewhat less brightly than normal. He asked questions about Geralt’s past that Geralt mostly ignored, and ones about Witchers in general, which he occasionally answered.

When they bedded down for the night, he put his bedroll down at an angle to Geralt’s, rather than across the fire from him. Their feet nearly brushed. Geralt wasn’t sure what it meant, and decided not to think about it.

The following day, the questions became even more pointed. Jaskier asked about Geralt’s previous sexual partners. He might have punched anyone else asking something so impertinent, but he supposed Jaskier had a right to his curiosity. He didn’t say it outright, but he probably wondered if Geralt had hurt his past lovers the same way Jaskier had been hurt. Geralt didn’t answer most of his questions, but he did, haltingly, admit to keeping himself firmly in check when bedding human whores, and preferring to have partners as strong as or stronger than himself - sorceresses, other Witchers, the occasional elf mage - because he was less likely to hurt them.

It was probably only a small comfort to know that Geralt didn’t actually  _ enjoy _ harming his lovers, but Jaskier seemed satisfied with the knowledge.

When they settled in for the night at another small clearing, Jaskier excused himself to go bathe in the river. The day had been warm, but the water was likely still frigid. Geralt warned him as much, but Jaskier just waved it away. Geralt had just gotten the fire going when Jaskier called for him, voice pitched unnaturally high.

“Geralt! Geralt, help!”

Geralt had his sword in hand and was tearing through the trees before the echo had died. When he reached the water’s edge, poised for a fight, he saw Jaskier standing in the river wearing nothing but his chemise, made translucent with moisture. He pointed to the reeds and said, “I saw a snake!”

With a barely suppressed sigh, Geralt sheathed his sword. There were a few snakes in this part of the Continent that were poisonous to humans, but they didn’t live in water, and were reclusive. Jaskier was just being… Jaskier.

Geralt turned to go back to camp, but Jaskier stopped him with a whine. “Can’t you just - keep an eye out for them or something? I’d feel better knowing they weren't sneaking up on me in the water.”

Under normal circumstances, Geralt wouldn’t have even dignified that with an answer. He’d have just left the idiot there with his irrational fears and ridiculous request. But almost against his will, Geralt found himself settling down on the bank.

Jaskier heaved a huge, overly-dramatic sigh of relief, and went back to washing himself.

Admittedly, Geralt had never taken the time to observe Jaskier’s full bathing ritual, but what he was watching seemed… strange. His movements were slow, drawn out, as though the water was warm and scented, rather than freezing river water. He extended one leg up onto a boulder and slowly drew his hands up its length, more caressing it than scrubbing it. He turned his back to Geralt, presumably to wash his front with relative privacy, but then ran his hands down his back and over his ass. He squeezed the firm, supple cheeks and glanced over his shoulder at Geralt coyly.

Geralt realized his cock was hard and shot to his feet. He stalked back to camp without looking back.

What the fuck was the bard playing at? It was possible he was just that oblivious, and didn’t realize how his actions would affect Geralt. It was just as possible that he knew  _ exactly _ what he was doing. But to what end? Was he  _ punishing _ Geralt? Showing him what he couldn’t ever have again? Teasing him mercilessly?

Maybe it was what Geralt deserved, but he had no desire to test his control. It was some small comfort that Jaskier seemed convinced Geralt wouldn’t snap and  _ force _ the issue, but still, Geralt didn’t want to know just how far his morals and fortitude stretched.

Five minutes later, Jaskier dropped down to his bedroll and checked on the meat cooking over the fire. He prodded the spitted hare, then looked up at Geralt and very pointedly sucked his fingers clean.

Geralt clenched his jaw and forced himself to ignore it.

When they finished eating, Jaskier stretched languidly, arching his back and moaning. Geralt’s eyes strayed to the sliver of his skin exposed by his rucked up shirt, and he tore them away when he realized he was staring. Jaskier smirked.

As darkness fell, Geralt thought he would finally get a reprieve from whatever Jaskier was inflicting upon him, but he was proven wrong. Jaskier stripped off  _ all _ his clothes, barely pulled the blanket over himself, and then very obviously  _ started stroking his cock. _

_ “Do you fucking mind?” _ Geralt snarled at him.

Jaskier turned toward him and grinned. “No, not at all.”

Geralt growled. He was about to shove to his feet and stalk away from camp, to go find something,  _ anything _ to kill, when Jaskier rolled to his side, allowing the blanket to slip away completely.

“If it bothers you so much, you could  _ make  _ me stop…”

Geralt stared at him.

Though he usually didn’t speak much, it wasn’t often that he was at a loss for words. He’d lived a long time, had seen many, many things, and generally knew what to expect in any given situation. But this-

He knew there were sexual masochists in the world. He’d never have thought Jaskier, who complained about every slight inconvenience, could be among their number, though. And was Jaskier being so blunt with his invitation because he thought this was something that Geralt would  _ enjoy? _

But, after what Geralt had done to him, why wouldn’t he think so?

He swallowed thickly, unsure whether it was disgust, or hurt, or sadness he was feeling. When he spoke, his voice came out as little more than a whisper. “Do you- do you  _ want _ me to hurt you?”

“What?” Jaskier’s face, which had been playfully seductive, scrunched up. He shifted, drawing the blanket back over his lap as he realized this was no game. “Wait, Geralt, why on earth would you think that? I mean, you’ve travelled with me for a while now, you’ve got to know that I’m a complete pansy! A few love bites and playful spanking is one thing but-” He stopped, his rambling leading him to some conclusion. “You think you already hurt me. And that if I’m seducing you again, then I must only want you because of the pain you can give me?”

Geralt’s shoulders hunched, and he looked away. “I  _ did _ hurt you.”

Jaskier sputtered. “Well- But… not  _ seriously!” _ His clarification didn’t seem to be helping, so Jaskier wrapped his blanket around himself and went around the fire, nudging his way onto Geralt’s bedroll. “Budge up a bit.” Geralt grudgingly gave him room, and Jaskier sat beside him. Their knees brushed.

He spoke again, his voice much gentler. “Listen, you’ve clearly got… issues, about this whole thing. I don’t know if you did really hurt someone once by accident, or if you’ve just gotten so used to humans expecting you to hurt them, or what, but this isn’t, in any way, about pain for me. I really am quite the pansy. I don’t mind my tumbles a little rough from time to time, but I’d never get into bed willingly with someone I thought would hurt me. I’ve spent the entire day trying to seduce you - thanks for not even noticing, by the way, real ego booster - not because you hurt me and I want more, but because you  _ didn’t. _ And we both know that you  _ could  _ have.” He paused, seeing Geralt’s jaw tighten. “I mean you’re clearly physically capable. But emotionally? I don’t think so.”

Geralt remained silent. Jaskier seemed so certain. Somehow, even after what he’d done, Jaskier still  _ wanted _ him. Still trusted him.

He considered reminding Jaskier that humans believed Witchers don’t have emotions, but he was fairly certain that ship had sailed. Jaskier  _ saw _ him, in a way that no one else had in nearly a century. It was terrifying, and invigorating.

“Look, Geralt, if you really don’t want this, or it’s going to cause you more pain than it’s worth-”

“No.” He said it almost before he realized what he was doing. It seemed suddenly important, more important than holding his silence, that he made sure Jaskier knew that he  _ did _ want him. “I… do.”

Jaskier shot him a grin. Geralt felt something in himself soften, unfurl.

“We both know what we’re getting into, right? This doesn’t have to be a big thing. Pretty sure neither of us are going to wake up and want declarations of undying love and commitment to monogamy in the morning, yeah?”

Geralt scoffed. Jaskier, monogamous? The idea was ridiculous. And even though it wasn’t as though Geralt had lovers lining up to claim him, he wasn’t fond of the idea either.

“So,” Jaskier continued, “no reason we can’t enjoy ourselves.” He shrugged a little, turning his stupidly charming half smile up at Geralt. Geralt was suddenly  _ very _ aware of the fact that Jaskier was naked under his blanket, and he had apparently spent an entire day trying to seduce him. It was quite the lust inspiring realization.

He could do this - he could  _ have _ this. No reason they couldn’t enjoy themselves. Simple, uncomplicated, safe. And something else, too. Something Geralt hadn’t thought he would ever associate with sex.  _ Fun. _

“Come here.”

Jaskier lit up, and Geralt felt himself unfurl further. Jaskier abandoned his blanket and crawled right into Geralt’s lap. Almost against his will, Geralt felt the ghost of a smile touch his lips.  _ So eager. _ He lifted his hand and hesitantly, haltingly, brushed a drying curl off Jaskier’s forehead. When Jaskier didn’t push him away, Geralt continued. He ran his hand down the back of Jaskier’s neck, across his shoulders, down his spine. His other hand joined too, both of them spanning Jaskier’s hips easily.

Geralt didn’t have anything against kissing, necessarily, but it wasn’t something that he did often. He knew first hand that Jaskier’s lips were as soft as they looked. Part of him wanted to press his own against them, to taste him there. Instead, he kissed Jaskier’s jaw. He let his mouth move along the line of it, under the shadow of it, down Jaskier’s neck, kissing and nibbling while his hands continued to explore.

He wanted to give Jaskier all the softness and foreplay they’d foregone the last time.

Jaskier, however, had other ideas.

He rucked up Geralt’s shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it away negligently. He couldn’t get Geralt’s trousers off while he was sitting, but he loosened the laces enough to draw Geralt’s burgeoning erection free.

“Come on, big guy, I know you’ve got more in you.” Jaskier wrapped his fingers around it and stroked. Geralt had started to laugh, but it ended on a groan.

“Shift back,” Geralt ordered. When Jaskier complied, Geralt brought their cocks together and stroked them with a single fist.

“You know,” Jaskier panted, his head falling forward and eyes fluttering, “I might be left feeling-  _ ah _ \- exceptionally inadequate with this visual -  _ oh gods yes like that - _ if this didn’t feel so fucking  _ good!” _ He bucked up into Geralt’s grasp eagerly. A becoming flush was rising up his chest. Geralt wanted to taste every inch of him.

“Still have that oil?”

Jaskier grinned wickedly and reached over to pluck the amphora from among the folds of his blanket. “A gentleman always comes prepared.”

“You’re no gentleman, but I’ll take the oil anyway.” Geralt took the amphora from him and easily switched their positions, putting Jaskier on the blanket under him.

Slowly, inch by delicious inch, Geralt let himself learn every dip and plane of Jaskier’s body. He discovered the spot on his ribs that was ticklish, found how sensitive his nipples were, mapped the freckles across his hip. He took Jaskier’s cock into his mouth while he started working him open with oil slicked fingers, thrilling at every one of Jaskier’s moans of pleasure.

“How many times can you come in a night?” Geralt asked when Jaskier was on the brink.

Jaskier blinked several times, trying to clear his head enough to reply. He looked thoroughly debauched, spread out on the bedroll like a feast, skin slick with sweat, Geralt’s thick fingers inside him. “I- I still have the stamina of youth,” he finally managed to say indignantly. When Geralt gave him a doubtful glance, he scrunched his nose. “But I can admit that it’s been a few years since I felt inclined to go beyond two.”

That was good enough. Geralt hummed in acknowledgement and lowered his head once more. He wanted to feel Jaskier come on his cock again, but he also wanted him to be soft and pliant from an orgasm when Geralt finally thrust into him. He started sucking purposely, curling his fingers at the same time.

Jaskier gasped, called his name, and then came across his tongue.

Satisfaction curled hotly through Geralt’s blood. Jaskier’s body was still clenching with aftershocks of pleasure, his eyes dazed. He was relaxed, happy, open to Geralt in a way unlike any other. Geralt just watched him for a long while, enjoying the sight of a thoroughly pleased lover.

“Are you just going to stay down there all night looking like a cat who got the cream, or are you going to fuck me?” Jaskier finally asked teasingly.

Geralt didn’t even bother to try and stifle his smile. He eased his fingers free and moved up Jaskier’s body until he could fit the head of his cock against him. “Jaskier,” he murmured. Jaskier looked up, breath caught in anticipation. “Shut up,” Geralt ordered fondly, and started to press forward.

Whatever Jaskier might’ve planned to say in reply was lost on a moan. His jaw fell slack as Geralt continued pushing into him. There was no resistance, just the slick slide of skin against skin. Geralt alternated looking at the lust on Jaskier’s face and the place where they were continuing to join. When he finally bottomed out, he ground his hips forward, seeking every last bit of entrance to Jaskier’s body.

Jaskier’s hands came up to grip Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt stilled.

“Do that again,” Jaskier begged.

Geralt complied.

Soon, the only sounds in the clearing were Jaskier’s gasping breaths and the slap of skin. With Jaskier already having come once, Geralt knew he could take his time bringing them both to orgasm together. He alternated between long, slow strokes and short, fast drives. He leaned down over Jaskier with Jaskier’s legs wrapped around his hips, and he sat back on his heels, bouncing Jaskier on his cock like a toy.

It was quicker than Geralt expected before Jaskier was hard again and begging for release. With how much Jaskier’s cock was leaking against his belly and how desperately he was moaning, Geralt almost wondered if he’d be able to come just like this, from only the sensation of Geralt inside him. It was a heady thought. Maybe someday, if they continued travelling together, he could test the theory. They could get a room for the night somewhere, something comfortably lavish for Jaskier, and Geralt could make him come utterly undone.

Not now, though. Geralt finally gave into Jaskier’s pleas and wrapped his fingers around him. In three agonizingly slow strokes, Jaskier came. Geralt followed immediately after, groaning low and letting himself go.

Sweat was drying on their skin when Jaskier finally caught his breath enough to speak. “That was…” He gestured vaguely. Geralt cocked a brow at him, still half expecting a reprimand. “Probably the best sex I’ve ever had, and let me tell you, I’ve had some  _ fantastic _ sex in my day. Seriously, is this something they teach you at Witcher school? Monster killing, potion making, exceptional fucking?”

Geralt barked out a laugh, imagining Vesemir teaching the boys the fine art of making love. Oh, he’d certainly had a thing or two to say about how their actions with sexual partners affected their reputation just as much as their monster hunting - and that he never expected a Witcher who’d come up under his care to go causing trouble by fucking someone who didn’t want it or leaving their partners unsatisfied - but  _ instruction? _ It was humorous just to think about.

“My skills, such as they are, are my own.”

_ “‘Such as they are.’  _ You say that like you didn’t just make me come spectacularly. Twice.”

Geralt gave a hum in reply. He  _ was _ proud of himself for the pleasure he’d give Jaskier. It was nice, from time to time, to prove to himself that he was capable of more than destruction and death. That he could give pleasure as well as pain.

“And it looks as though you could use a second round yourself.” Jaskier gestured down to Geralt’s still hard cock.

If he had his way, Geralt would fuck Jaskier two or three times more before the night was out, but he knew Jaskier’s very human body would not accomidate a Witcher’s unrestricted appetites.

He shrugged negligently.“You said it had been a while since you felt inclined to go beyond two.”

“I did.”

“Does the inclination strike you now?”

Jaskier grinned. “It really,  _ really _ does, Geralt.”

Geralt growled his approval and rolled Jaskier onto his back.

***

***

_ Jaskier’s Journal: _

_ He’s not riding Roach. I feel like this is significant in some way. He’s obviously still upset about what happened - though of course he refuses to fucking talk to me about it - and I wonder if this is his way of being considerate? _

_ He’s so standoffish that I thought at first maybe he was mad at me. Or rather, at the fact that he slept with me. Something about me specifically that put him off. But I don’t think I’m just being cocky to say that he enjoyed the hell out of what we did. So… more self-loathing? I wish he’d just believe me when I say that I was just as into it as he was, but no, that would be too emotionally mature for Geralt of fucking Rivia. _

_ Uuuuuugh _

_ * _

_ ~Round and round the river _

_ The wolf was chased by the hare _

_ The wolf was caught _

_ And then he thought _

_ I must’ve given it a scare _

_ * _

_ Okay, so maybe something slightly good is coming from all his brooding. He’s actually answering a few of my questions. And the more I learn about this man…. Holy fuck, can we say ISSUES? I could fill all the pages of this journal - all the pages of a dozen journals - writing about his internal stress. You’d never tell from looking at him. He comes across as this strictly one dimensional being, the emotionless killing machine. And of course if you spend more than five minutes around the man you see beneath that, but then there’s this whole other layer even deeper, with all this emotional trauma and his angst and this ridiculous desire to do right - which he would deny the hell out of. _

_ You’d think someone like him would be all dom/top/aggression, but NOPE. He actually prefers that the people he fucks are stronger than he is, because he’s convinced he’ll hurt everyone around him. But of course, there aren’t all that many people in the world who ARE stronger than him, so when he’s with someone weaker, he turns into the biggest service top I’ve ever met. Which, now that I think about it, combined with everything else I know about him… isn’t actually all that surprising. _

_ Ugh he is an absolute mess of a man, and I should want nothing to do with all his issues, but… who am I kidding? This is like catnip to me. _

_ * _

_ Seduction attempt one was a massive failure. More drastic attempts will commence tomorrow. _

_ * _

_ FINALLY! PROGRESS! And more sex! _

_ Sweet Melitele the man can fuck. I thought the first time with all the grr and the roar was good, and then he pulls this out? He’s like… it’s like holding bottled lightning. There’s so much raw power there, and it’s so carefully controlled, even when he’s at his most wild. That is incredibly arousing. _

_ And did I call him a service top? I had NO idea just how true that was. It’s like everything he does is carefully designed to GIVE pleasure, and then what he’s getting off on isn’t his own pleasure, but watching mine. Which should be completely contrary for an emotionless monster slayer, but we know better. _

_ I sincerely hope that I get to keep travelling with him, not just to get the chance to fuck him any time the fancy strikes me, or to sing his praises from here to Kaedwen, but to… put him back together. I feel like each passing year of his long life has chipped away a piece of him, grinding him down to this raw, jagged tower of a man who believes that anyone near him will dash themselves to pieces against him. If nothing else, I want to prove to him that that isn’t true. _

_ Also, I wonder if he’ll let me top him. _

_ * _

_ ….the answer is yes. Hooooly fuck. _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Format of this chapter is slightly different in that we get Jaskier's journal in the middle, rather than at the end. That's because it takes us to our first non-show event. In the books, after Geralt saves the striga, he goes to a temple to recover from the wound on his throat (and bang a mute priestess), and Jaskier visits him there. I'm including it in this story because it's the point where Jaskier tells Geralt more about his past. The timeline is way off, though, because in the books, the striga happens much later - after Geralt meets Yen. I'm budging it back to where the show timeline puts things. Let me know if you need any more clarification!

Things with Jaskier were simple. Uncomplicated. The bard fell almost immediately into bed with a pretty maid in Leyda. He’d flashed a look at Geralt on his way out the door, something uncertain, hesitant, but when Geralt just raised his mug to the couple, Jaskier’s carefree grin was back. Geralt didn’t see him again till morning, and that was fine.

It was nice for Geralt not to have to spend his coin on whores, but it was also just as nice that there wouldn’t be any trouble should he choose to, if the fancy struck him.

Jaskier was free with his body, eager to romance anyone who seemed inclined, but his only significant attachment was to Geralt.

Geralt had no desire or intention to label what they had, but it suited them just fine all the same.

***

Eventually, autumn drew to a close. Geralt had been meandering North, before Jaskier had started travelling with him, but they’d turned North West after a while. Geralt usually spent his winters at Kaer Morhen when he was able, and Jaskier had mentioned needing to give lectures at Oxenfurt. They made it to the university town just as the last of the season’s leaves fell. It would take hard riding, but Geralt could make it to Kaer Morhen before the road became impassible if he left right away.

Part of Geralt feared long, drawn out goodbyes. Jaskier tended toward the dramatic, and they’d been travelling together - and sleeping together - for the better part of a year. It wouldn’t be surprising if Jaskier put up a fuss about their separation.

And Geralt could admit, in the privacy of his own mind, that it would be strange for him too. He’d travelled alone all his life, but he’d gotten used to having Jaskier with him. It would be strange, not to have the bard chattering in his ear every waking moment. And, there was no guarantee that Jaskier would choose to travel with him again once spring came.

“Sure you can make it to the Keep before the snow?”

Geralt forced his thoughts away from his introspection and back to the present. “Mm.”

“I imagine it stays frozen longer up there than it does down here. It’ll be what, four months before you’re back to your Witchering?”

Geralt nodded.

“Well I planned to head to Vizima in the spring, test the waters down there. See how receptive they are to my musical genius. And I hear Temeria is just crawling with monsters.”

A hint of a smile touched Geralt’s lips. “Oh?”

“Crawling with them. Oodles to be killed. So, if you’re looking for someplace to go, come spring…” He shrugged. “We might run into each other.”

“We might just.”

They parted ways at the gates of the city, with no more than the casual salute they gave each other when they would be parted for a single night. With the knowledge that they would see each other again, it was enough.

***

_ Jaskier’s Journal: _

_ Ah, Oxenfurt. Being back among fellow artists, in these familiar halls, is almost enough to make up for not being out adventuring with Geralt. _

_ Back when I was here as a student, I never would have thought that these simple straw mattresses and gruel breakfasts would feel like luxury. But after most of the year on the road with a Witcher who thinks luxury is having a fire to cook your dinner over, this is practically a palace. _

_ It’s good to be back here, as a peer instead of a student - no more canings for me, thank you very much. It’ll be a comfortable few months, I believe. And while I would never be so uncouth as to try and seduce any of the students, there are a few fresh faces among the alumni making winter here, along with a few comfortably familiar ones, so I don’t think I’ll have to be celebate by any means. _

_ I wonder what Geralt will get up to with his fellow Witchers…? _

_ It’s strange, I’ve been with lovers who were possessive - and I myself have felt possessive jealousy of a lover before, when I was younger. Geralt doesn’t seem to be burdened by that at all. I KNOW he cares about me, despite his growling, stoic demeanor, but he never even batted an eye when I went off with another lover. I’d have thought it was a Witcher trait, except that I’m certainly no Witcher, and I don’t feel any jealousy of his nocturnal habits. _

_ If all sexual relationships could be this simple, the world would certainly be a better place. _

_ Then again, maybe we are the strange ones, and the rest of the world is in the right to pursue monogamy so rigidly. Who knows? _

_ * _

_ It should not surprise me at all that Toss a Coin has preceded me here. It seems my song has spread across the continent! _

_ I can’t wait to rub my success in Geralt’s face. And, you know, see how much nicer people will be to him now that they see him as a hero, bla bla bla. But mostly the rubbing of the success. _

_ * _

_ My muse seems to have dried up entirely. I’ve been trying for a bloody fortnight to compose even a simple drinking song, and have come up with nothing. _

_ I would despair entirely, except that I wrote plenty when on the road with Geralt, and knowing we will travel together in the spring gives me hope that I’ll be able to write more then. _

_ * _

_ My affair with Madam Tewsin has, alas, reached its end. I thought I was in luck when her husband proved surprisingly amenable to joining us when he discovered me having my wicked way with her in the pantry, but all good things must come to an end. Mr Tewsin seems to have taken another lady as a lover, and the Madam is less-than-keen on sharing her husband if it's with another woman. So apparently, they’ve sworn off all extramarital affairs. _

_ I would almost feel cast off, except that Lord Breon’s daughter has been giving me very significant looks all week. Never let it be said I was starved for variety! _

_ * _

_ It thaws just long enough for the snow to melt and for me to think that spring has finally come, only to squall again and load the ground with the hateful white stuff. Not even warming Lord Breon’s bed - which provided much needed comfort when his daughter eloped with Pietree - can distract me from this endless winter. _

_ I’m convinced the season is unnaturally long, though the weather master claims it is the same as ever. Then he had the audacity to hint that I was eager for something that came with the spring, rather than the spring itself, and that was making the time crawl. The nerve of the man. _

_ * _

_ VIZIMA OPEN YOUR ARMS, JASKIER IS ON THE WAY! _

_ The tree outside my quarters has started to bud, a sure sign that spring is well and truly here. There are taverns to sing in, courts to enchant with my talent, and, maybe, a gruff Witcher to meet up with. _

_ While I’ve made coin enough on my writing and from the songs made famous over the last year, I’ll be glad to get back to my muse. _

_ * _

_ Apparently spring doesn’t come to the north for another fortnight, at least. How hateful. _

_ * _

_ I shouldn’t be surprised. I really shouldn’t. It was only a matter of time before the big idiot got himself well and truly hurt. He rushes into danger rather than away from it, and of course he’d never ask for help if he needed it. Really, it’s a miracle he survived at all without me around to at least TRY and talk some sense into him. _

_ He somehow managed to get himself to the Temple of Melitele in Ellander to recover, according to Adersse. I’m headed there now. If the bastard hasn’t died before I arrive, I’m going to bloody wallop him for making me worry so much! _

_ *** _

_ *** _

Geralt sighed and rubbed his forehead after Nenneke left his room. The priestess meant well, and Geralt appreciated all she’d done to help him, but he had no interest in lectures about faith.

She was right about one thing, though. He shouldn’t have let a simple Striga injure him. It was a stupid mistake, one that had almost cost him his life. She’d looked so defenseless once she reverted, so  _ young. _ Geralt had allowed himself to be blinded by it, to forget that she still, quite literally, had claws.

He supposed it had all worked out in the end, however. The girl was recovering under her father’s care, and Geralt had managed to make it to the Temple for his own recovery. Once he was healed, he could make it back to Vizima in only a few day's ride. He intended to be wholly silent on the origin of his new scars when he saw the bard again, though. Jaskier would never let him live it down if he found out Geralt had been so severely injured.

As for Jaskier… it seemed there was a lot Geralt owed him. That ridiculous song had become a tavern favorite, and somehow, in only a few short months, people’s attitudes toward him seemed to have softened. Twice on his way through Redania he’d been offered a place to sleep after finishing contracts. Not to mention how welcoming the prostitute in La Valette had been. Not only had she not been afraid of him, she’d been willing to let him stay with her two days. It probably helped that she’d been well treated - and well paid - by a Witcher not long before, but Geralt knew that Jaskier and his damn song were at the root of it.

There was a knock on his door, and Geralt braced himself. It was likely either Nenneke with another lecture, or Iola looking for another tumble. Geralt wasn’t sure he was ready for either.

The knocking turned urgent, and there were muffled voices outside the door. Someone shouted, and another voice, a male one, replied scathingly. Geralt sighed and drew his sword. Whoever the man was, he was an idiot to invade the sanctuary of Melitele. The priestesses would be furious. But it was probably Geralt they were after, so it was only fair that he handle the situation.

The door burst open, and Jaskier saw him, pointed at him, and  _ glowered. _ “You!”

Geralt put his sword away and forced himself not to smile.

***

With the priestesses calmed and assured that they weren’t being invaded, Geralt and Jaskier were given privacy. Geralt almost wished they would have stayed. Somehow, Jaskier had gotten word of Geralt’s injuries, and Nenneke had gleefully spared no detail of the Striga attack. Jaskier was looking at him as though he wanted to strangle him as much as greet him.

So much for keeping the bard in the dark about the attack.

“How old are you, Geralt?”

Since the question was clearly just a build up to Jaskier’s tirade, Geralt didn’t answer.

“Somehow, you’ve managed to keep yourself alive all those years, and yet,” he stood and started pacing the room, “and yet, I leave you alone for a few short months, and you nearly die. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is to travel from Vizima to Ellander in a day and a half? It involves cramped carriages, numerous horse changes, and  _ very _ little sleep!”

“You didn’t have to come,” Geralt offered mildly.

Jaskier sputtered, blustered, turned an alarming shade of red, and then managed to calm himself somewhat. He straightened his doublet and ran a hand through his tousled curls.

“I may be only a humble bard, but even  _ I _ know that you go running when you find that grievous injury has befallen your-” He paused. 

“Your  _ what?” _ Geralt cut in with a barely tempered smile.

“Oh shut up, you know what I mean. Don’t try and tell me you wouldn’t have rushed to my side if I’d been the one hurt.”

Geralt hummed noncommittally, but Jaskier just waved it away.

“Pretend to be the big unfeeling brute all you like, but I know better, Geralt of Rivia. And don’t you forget it.” His expression softened, and he sat close to Geralt on the bed. “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

Geralt felt that damn unfurling in his chest, and he knew his face softened as well. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Good.” Jaskier grinned, all his anger forgotten. “Because it’s been  _ months _ since I had my fill of deliciously muscled Witcher, and I’m about to tear these clothes right off you.”

“You are aware that I almost had my throat ripped out just a few days ago?”

Jaskier scrunched his nose and shrugged. “Eh, you’ll be fine. Lay on your back and try not to jerk around too much.”

Geralt smirked. “No promises.”

***

After two rounds of sex, only one of which Geralt stayed obediently on his back for, they lay sprawled out on the bed catching their breath.

Geralt’s wounds hurt like a bitch, but it was more than worth it. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to have the annoying bard in his arms. Irritating, amusing, arousing… Jaskier.

He’d missed this.

Missed him.

It was a pain in the ass even to acknowledge, but Geralt didn’t have it in him to cut ties. Not yet.

“How was Oxenfurt?”

Jaskier flashed him a brilliant smile - it wasn’t often that Geralt initiated conversation - and launched into a description of all his activities since they’d parted. Most of it was dull, the petty squabbles of men and droning arguments about academia, but when Jaskier got to the part where he’d been discovered with Madam Tewsin, and being convinced her husband would want his balls for it, Geralt couldn’t help but laugh. And then when he talked about moving from the junior Breon’s bed to the senior’s, Geralt just rolled his eyes. There wasn’t a single ounce of shame in Jaskier - and Geralt wouldn’t have him any other way.

“I’m just glad that they’ve mellowed out since I graduated. It may be harder to sneak out of a fellow professor’s rooms at midnight, but the students can all sit better. A worthy sacrifice.”

“Mm?”

“Well curfew was strictly enforced while I was a student.  _ Everything _ was strictly enforced, as a matter of fact. Step one toe out of line and it was off to the headmaster’s office with you, where you learned your lessons at the end of a cane. Being a troublemaker wasn’t a pleasant experience, let me tell you.”

“They beat you?”

“I wouldn’t call it  _ beating. _ More like, hitting you over and over again until you couldn’t sit for a week.”

Geralt frowned. “That’s beating.”

Jaskier laughed, presumably at the expression on Geralt’s face, though Geralt didn’t see how any of this was amusing. “Oh, come on Geralt, you can’t tell me they didn’t use corporal punishment at that Witcher school of yours. Give you the ol’ ringer when you spoke out of turn or didn’t finish your Witcher homework.”

“They didn’t beat the children, no.” Most boys training to be Witchers lived short, brutal lives. They trained hard, became tough, and died in agony before they saw their teen years. Those that survived were exposed to horrible mutations to make them strong enough to survive. It was a cold, hard existence, but no one had ever raised a hand to Geralt in anger as a child. He’d spent plenty of time on latrine duty for tardiness or not working hard enough, and he’d been bruised black and blue most days from training, but no one had  _ beaten  _ him. Not as punishment.

“Well, I- I wouldn’t say you were lucky necessarily, what with everything, but you can at least be grateful that you missed out on that particular misery. Some of the older professors  _ still _ give me the shakes.”

“Really.” Geralt drew out the word calculatingly. He was imagining them taking a detour back through Oxenfurt. Just a quick jaunt. One or two nights is all he would need. Not even wet work - just a few broken arms, a displaced kneecap or two…

“Cut that out,” Jaskier huffed fondly, interrupting Geralt’s daydream of vengeance. “I can practically  _ see _ you thinking violence. And as touching as that is, you big softie, it’s unnecessary. The headmaster died fucking his mistress a handfull of years ago, and the professors that are left from my childhood are old, crochety men. Let their gout keep making them miserable the rest of their days.”

“Hm.”

Geralt wasn’t entirely convinced.

“How was your Fortress? Full of Witchers ready to exchange monster slaying tales around the fire? Were there drinking songs? Did anyone sing one of mine?”

“There were less than half a dozen this year. And no singing.” There had been plenty of drinking, however.

“Really? So few? I… I knew there had been, well-” He swallowed and made a vague gesture, presumably to indicate the violence that had decimated the Witcher population. “But so few?”

Geralt nodded. “Likely for the best, all things considered. There aren’t as many monsters in the world, Jaskier. Not the bestial sort.” Monster slaying had never been a glamorous or lucrative career, but in the last few decades, it had become nearly impossible to sustain on. Some contracts paid well, like the one for the Striga, but most were purses put together by desperate peasants, and even those were becoming increasingly rare.

“I guess I never realized. There always seems some sort of issue for you to sort out, wherever we go, so I just assumed…”

“Work enough for a handful of Witchers across the whole continent, maybe. Not much more. And likely not for much longer.”

“Will you- I mean, is there anything else you’ll do? I could look into-”

Geralt gave an indulgent smile, a little sad. “It won’t happen in your lifetime, bard. Not to worry.”

“Ah.” Jaskier settled back into the crook of Geralt’s shoulder, uncharacteristically quiet.

It shouldn’t bother him, but Geralt didn’t like to think that the silence came from Jaskier pondering his own mortality. It was gross indulgence, but Geralt nuzzled Jaskier’s hair and whispered, “sing me a song.”

Jaskier was only too happy to comply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also: according to the books, monsters are, indeed, dying out. One of the main greviences Geralt has is the lack of work. The show makes it seem like monsters and jobs abound, but that's not the case.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we come to some more Yennefer heavy bits. There's a major difference in Yen and Geralt's relationship in the show vs the books. In the books, she knew the wish he made, and seemed more awed/flattered by it than angered. Also, she and Geralt lived together for a while, as a couple. Things ended when he became uncomfortable with how possessive she was and he left (in the middle of the night with only a note to explain). This story doesnt really get into what exactly has happened between them, but it does address Yen's possessiveness.

It was amusing, watching Jaskier and Yennefer interact on their way up the mountain near Hengfors. It was clear that Jaskier was still smarting from his first run-in with the sorceress, and she was her same cool, derisive self. It was like watching two cats circle each other. Geralt couldn’t decide whether they would start taking swipes at each other or end up cuddled together in the most convenient ray of sunshine once the hissing stopped.

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem the hissing would stop any time soon. 

For his part, Geralt wasn’t inclined to interfere with their verbal sparring, though he did smack Jaskier for his comment about her virtue. It was most certainly  _ true, _ but it was also rude to point it out.

The first night on the mountain, Geralt and Jaskier shared their meager accommodations. It wasn’t until later, after Yennefer’s knight had been dispatched and her opulent tent was set up alone, that Geralt felt torn. He wanted to stay with Jaskier, though they hadn’t done anything sexual so near to the others… but he also wanted to go to Yen.

Jaskier flicked him in the forehead as he sat, pondering it. He jerked his head toward the tent. “Well go on, then,” he said with a laugh and a huff. Geralt blinked at him, surprised despite all their history with others. It was one thing to happen while they were apart, or in the heat of passion. It was another to actively choose to stay with Yen over Jaskier. “You’ve been making doe eyes at her since we started up this mountain. If you don’t get into her bed, we’ll all go mad from the unresolved sexual tension!”

It was on the tip of Geralt’s tongue to ask if Jaskier was sure, that he didn’t mind, but he bit back the questions. Of course Jaskier was sure. Of course he didn’t mind. That wouldn’t be like him, to be troubled by Geralt bedding another. Even one he clearly cared about. With a gentle smile, Geralt reached out and tugged softly at Jaskier’s errant, curling forelock. Then, he got up and went into the tent.

***

There was no comparing Yennefer with Jaskier. And yet, at times, Geralt found himself doing exactly that. It was not better or worse - it was just  _ different. _ Yennefer was as complicated as Jaskier was simple. One wrong word could send her into a sulk or a rage. She was like a blade of grass dancing in a windstorm. He never knew when he would catch her, and once he did, how long he’d get to hold her for.

They kissed. In all the years that Geralt and Jaskier had been both companions and bedmates, they’d never kissed on the mouth. With Yennefer it was impossible not to. Geralt was drawn to her lips, to taste them like the finest wine. He could spend hours exploring the curve of them, the warmth of her mouth, the slide of her tongue. It was intoxicating.

And despite her slender, fragile appearance, Yennefer was  _ powerful. _ Geralt did not have to worry that he would hurt her if he fucked her too hard. She could take everything he had and give it back twice as hard. She was fierce. She sought her pleasure and unapologetically snatched it. Whether she was under him, moving his hand exactly where she wanted it, or riding his tongue, she was uninhibited. For someone like Geralt, who was aroused by his partner’s pleasure, it was breathtaking. Just being so near to her while she used him to sate herself was enough to leave him addled with lust.

Geralt would never forget the taste of her sweetness that night. That maddening scent, lilac and gooseberries, dancing through his head. The way she breathed his name as she came undone. How her thighs fell open as he crawled up her body and slotted them together. Her slick heat gripping him as he thrust into her. And her surprising tenderness.

For all her strength, there was another side of Yennefer, too. A softer side. Not weakness - never weakness - but something gentle all the same. She bared her heart to him, admitted her deepest desires, her most desperate longing. And it wasn’t for power, or glory. It was simply to be wanted.

Geralt had spent his whole life not being wanted, and convincing himself that he didn’t  _ want _ to be wanted. He’d told Jaskier  _ I want no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me. _ And though they’d both known it was a lie, neither of them said it.

Here, with Yennefer, Geralt could do that. He could admit the truth. Because, in a perverse way, Yennefer was  _ safe. _ She was nothing like comfortable, uncomplicated Jaskier. Jaskier was safe because he demanded nothing from Geralt, and accepted what they were with no questions. But he was still so very human. So very fragile. It would be a mistake for Geralt to do something so stupid as to  _ love _ him. Someone who would die, who Geralt would inevitably fail, and would leave him brokenhearted. But Yennefer….

With Yen, Geralt was the only one in danger of being hurt. She could kill him with a single spell. She would likely outlive him by centuries. If he gave his heart to her, she would either eat it or kick it away. It was only his own pain he was risking, by loving her.

And he would rather be flayed open, cut to the bone, burned from the inside out, than hurt someone he loved.

As long as he could keep himself convinced that he loved only Yen, and not Jaskier too, he wouldn’t have to risk that kind of pain.

***

_ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands! _

Geralt had nightmares of those words. Where he spoke them, spewed them like poison at the person who deserved them the least.

And then he would wake to realize the nightmares were true.

He hadn’t seen Jaskier since that day. He’d gone back down that damn mountain, gone as far north as he could at a blind, reckless pace, finally faced reality, and headed back to Cintra. Seeing the armies there had been enough to spur him to action.

Jaskier leaving had been an inevitability. What they’d shared couldn’t last. Geralt had known that somewhere along the line, he would hurt the bard. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Geralt accepted it along with everything else he could not change. Jaskier was better off without him. He could find happiness with one of the skirts he so often chased. Eventually, one of the beds he warmed would have contained someone who saw his true worth, and he would have left anyway. It was better this way.

Ciri, though, she  _ needed _ Geralt. He’d done his best to fight against it, but fate - the cold, cruel bitch - had decided to force the issue. Calanthe might have disagreed, but seeing her corpse outside the castle was enough to put Geralt beyond any doubt. Some things couldn’t be escaped, and destiny was one of them.

It was easier, when he focused on finding Ciri. When he wore himself ragged searching. When he took risks, like saving a man burying bodies. When he was so injured that he was delirious. He didn’t have to think about the pain on Jaskier’s face, then. About the way he’d turned, shoulders slumped, and walked out of Geralt’s life.

Easier to think about anything else.

***

Having Ciri in his arms, Geralt’s world shifted. There had been guiding stars in his life, principles he clung to, paths he tried to follow. But once he held her, small and trembling, everything realigned itself around this one thing. He’d found his True North, and it was Cirilla. Keeping her safe. 

He’d never felt connection like this before. Nothing compared. She was  _ his. _ Not for what he could get from her, or for what they could be together, but for what he would give to her, instantly and without thought. Everything. He wondered if this is what new mothers felt, when they first held their babes in their arms. This sudden, overwhelming, all-encompassing  _ love. _ It defied logic. If Geralt didn’t know better, he would assume that only some sort of magic could make him feel so much, so quickly, but he  _ did _ know better.

Magic could not create the sensation of real love. Of selfless love. 

This girl was  _ his child, _ and she always had been. He’d fought it for years, but now that he’d held her, there was no going back.

What he’d told Yennefer at Mount Hengfor, about a Witcher or sorceress' life not being suited for a child, was true. Now that he had Ciri, he believed that even more so. But that didn’t mean that he was going to give her up. He couldn’t. It meant, rather, that  _ his _ life would have to change.

He would take her to Kaer Morhen. He would keep her safe there. And, if she would come, he’d ask Yennefer to help train Ciri to control her powers.

***

“You know, I only came for the girl,” Yennefer said as they shared a cup of wine.

“Mm.” Geralt stretched and kicked his feet up, watching the flames dance in the fireplace. Yennefer shoved at his arm.

“I mean it. I’m still angry with you.”

“I know.”

“But… if Borch was right… if I won’t ever have my fertility restored and can never have a child… then I might as well lay claim to yours.”

Geralt couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Yen glowered at him for a moment, then the look softened, and she smiled. “She is certainly going to need my presence in her life. Not only does her magic need controlling, but she can’t be raised by wolves.”

“Wolves?”

“Don’t look at me like that, you know exactly what I mean. You and Vesemir will have her eating raw meat and communicating in grunts if you raise her yourself. She is a princess, and a powerful conduit of chaos. She should do more than curse, sleep in the dirt, and kill things.” Yennefer studied the hem of her dress, eyes shifting as if she was having trouble seeing it. “I plan to take her under my wing, Geralt. I’m going to be here for her. So you’d better get used to the idea of me being around.”

“I always want you around.”

Yennefer cut a look at him. “You and I both know I’m too possessive for your taste. We may be bound together by fate, and maybe it’s even more than that… but you’ve never wanted to settle down with one person. You’ve never wanted to stay in one place for long.”

“I’m going to be here,” Geralt said quietly, “for as long as Ciri needs it. Needs me.”

Yennefer nodded, letting that be enough. Geralt was surprised. A few years ago, that  _ wouldn’t  _ have been enough. Yen had been in love with the idea of love, of someone who would live and die for her. Someone who would make their whole world revolve around her alone. And she was right, that kind of possessiveness would have been stifling for Geralt. Not because he was incapable of staying faithful or truly loving someone, but because he needed his autonomy. It had been taken from him, in making a Witcher of him, in forcing him into a role he could never escape. He never wanted it taken from him again - not by an organization, not by a king, not by a lover.

It was why Jaskier had-

But no, Geralt wasn’t thinking about Jaskier.

He was thinking about Yen, and how much she’d changed. Maybe she felt a pull to Ciri the way Geralt did. Maybe having someone she could mother would temper that possessiveness in her, would let her see there were other ways to love than obsessively, worshipfully.

Maybe caring for someone together would draw them closer.

***

A week after she’d arrived in Kaer Morhen, Yennefer slipped into Geralt’s room. The moonlight through the small window barely illuminated her, but Geralt would know the scent of her anywhere. She lifted the covers and got into the bed, letting her naked body settle, warm and soft, against Geralt’s.

“You’re good with her, you know.”

Geralt hummed. “That surprises you?”

“To be honest - yes. I hadn’t thought…” She trailed her hand down Geralt’s arm until she was touching his hand, tracing his fingers. She brushed softly over the scars and callouses, then fit her much smaller hand in his. “I hadn’t thought you capable of gentleness.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed. “Have I not been gentle with you, Yennefer? When you wanted it, when you needed it?”

Perhaps a touch of his hurt bled into his tone, because Yen laced their fingers together. “You have, Geralt. But with Ciri, it’s different.”

Geralt wouldn’t disagree. With Ciri, everything was different.

“You protect her fiercely but don’t coddle her. You teach her naked, sometimes brutal truths, but spoil her with affection. You love her, openly and without reserve.”

He might not have put it so eloquently, but all of that was true. He was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “I tried for years to protect her by keeping her at a distance. By not claiming her. It is nothing but pain for a Witcher to love a human. So fragile… so vulnerable. Think of how eager enemies would be to get their hands on someone a Witcher loves. And the stigma they would face. I wanted to protect her from that. But in the end, it didn’t protect her at all.” He let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening around Yen’s. “If I have to claim her, then I will  _ claim  _ her. As my own, under my protection. And I will make it known that she is not a vulnerability of mine to exploit, but a threat. In her own right, yes, but also as my daughter. They will look at her and tremble, because she will be able to kill them with little effort, but also because they know that if they harm a hair on her head, they will have  _ me _ to answer to.”

“You are a good father, Geralt.”

Geralt was silent. He was good at only one thing, and that was killing. But he  _ wanted _ to be good for Ciri. Wanted it desperately. Yen finally turned in his arms, so they were face to face. “They will not just have you to answer to, you know.” She smiled a little. “They will have me, as well.”

She leaned forward, eyes glinting amethyst in the moonlight, and kissed him. Part of Geralt wondered if he should resist - nothing lasting had ever come of their being together, and now more than ever they needed to coexist peacefully. But then Yennefer’s hand slid into his hair and her leg hitched up over his hip, and Geralt forgot everything but how good it felt to be in her arms. Her skin was impossibly soft, her lips moreso. With that hidden strength, she pushed him to his back and straddled him. She gave two coaxing strokes to bring him to hardness, then guided him into her.

When she would have leaned up to look down at him as she rode him, Geralt kept his arm wrapped around her. He wanted her close, wanted to be able to kiss her. Wanted this to be more than an impersonal fuck.

She moved slowly, her hips rocking gently as they kissed. Their breath mingled. Yennefer’s body started to tremble, but it wasn’t enough. In a smooth motion, Geralt rolled them so that he was on top. He slipped his hand between them, splayed low on Yennefer’s belly. His thumb brushed over her clit and then began to rub it in slow circles that had her clenching around him. Her nails dug into his shoulders in a delicious counterpoint to the pleasure, and Geralt moved faster. He thrust harder, giving her what she needed, giving her all of himself.

Electricity hummed along her skin, crackling and sparking as she came. Geralt held off long enough to see her through the crest of her orgasm before he allowed himself to follow.

***

“You’re holding it wrong,” Geralt said patiently for the fifth time that morning. It was the grip for a steel sword, not a silver one. The weights were different. A steel sword should have been sufficient as protection, but Ciri didn’t want just protection. Somehow, she’d gotten the idea into her head that she wanted to be a Witcher, and there was no dissuading her from the notion.

If she was going to try to train as a Witcher, then she was going to do it right.

“Uncle Vesemir says you can use this grip with a silver sword if you’re unbalanced.”

Geralt sighed. “And  _ uncle _ Vesemir is right. But you  _ aren’t _ unbalanced, and using that grip when you’re on steady ground is going to make you more likely to drop your sword.” He quickly made his point, turning his training sword over and around hers until it broke her grip and the silver sword clattered to the ground. “Like that.”

“Woah.”

Geralt cocked a brow at her and couldn’t help a small grin. She’d been training with him for a month, but continued to be amazed at the things he could do. Even simple things, like disarming an opponent, made her stare at him as though he was the strongest man in the entire world. It made him  _ feel _ like it, too.

Life at Kaer Morhen was nearly perfect.

Nearly.

Sometimes, he still woke from nightmares of the cruel words he’d spoken to Jaskier. Sometimes, when he was holding Yennefer, he thought about how Jaskier had felt in his arms. Sometimes he thought of what the bard would be able to teach Ciri that he, Yennefer, and Vesemir couldn’t. Philosophy, poetry, literature. Things she wouldn’t need in a life as a Witcher, no, but things she deserved to learn as a princess.

Sometimes, when he was alone, Geralt allowed himself to admit that he missed Jaskier.

***

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” Yen’s voice startled Geralt from his thoughts. She’d been asleep only moments before.

“Nothing.”

She smiled sleepily. “Liar. There’s some tune in your head. I can hear it.”

“I thought you’d learned your lesson about peering into people’s thoughts uninvited.”

“It’s not intentional, I assure you. The song is hardly my taste.”

Geralt grunted in reply. In truth, the song was one of Jaskier’s. Not one of his more popular ones, that had tavern crowds filling his hat with coins, but something softer, sweeter. He couldn’t remember all the words, but snatches of the verses came to him if he hummed it. Something about a lark caught in a snare…

“You miss him.”

Geralt growled. “Damnit, Yen!”

She didn’t even attempt to sound apologetic. Instead, she propped herself up on her elbow and looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t try to deny it. You miss the bard.”

Geralt rolled to his back and blinked up at the ceiling. Hard to lie to someone who could read minds.

“I knew the two of you were… close. I didn’t realize-”

“It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

_ Fuck, _ he was too tired for this shit. “There’s nothing for you to be jealous of.”

“I never said there was.”

He looked over at her, and was surprised to see that she wasn’t upset. She seemed… curious.

“We… spent time together. A long time. I got used to his presence.”

“And his ass,” Yen added, tone amused.

Geralt shrugged, not denying it. Sex with Jaskier had always been fantastic, and he wouldn’t try to lie and pretend they hadn’t been lovers, but that wasn’t what Geralt missed most about the bard.

“You cared about him. You still do.”

“As much as a Witcher can, I suppose.”

Yennefer laughed. “So you’re desperately in love with him, then?”

“I don’t  _ love _ Jaskier!” It was snarled so fiercely that Yenniver’s amusement vanished.

“Why is he not here?”

The change in tack had Geralt stumbling, admitting more than he wanted. “I- I pushed him away. The last time you and I parted. I was angry, and I lashed out at him. I said unforgivable things. I haven’t seen him since.”

Yennefer’s hand, cool and soft, came to rest on Geralt’s chest. “Surely not unforgivable.”

Geralt turned his face away. “I blamed him. For what happened with the djinn, for claiming Ciri, for losing you.”

Yennefer’s expression softened in sympathy, and then her eyes narrowed. “He was there for  _ all _ those things?”

“He’s been at every significant event in my life for the past several decades, the good and the bad. But all I could see was my own pain.”

_ “Decades?” _

“It was for the best, in the end. I would only cause him more pain. And eventually, he will die, just like all humans. I didn’t need his death on my conscience. Whatever we had was doomed from the start.”

He expected Yennefer to be satisfied at that. Or to dig into him about all the time he and Jaskier had spent together. What he didn’t expect, was for her to sit upright and gasp.

“He’s a Weaver!”

Geralt scowled. “He’s a singer.”

Yennefer smacked him. “A  _ Weaver, _ you idiot. A Fate Weaver.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Jaskier is  _ human. _ Totally and completely.”

“Think about it, Geralt. Humans have feared and despised Witchers for centuries. Then you and Jaskier start travelling together, and in just a few short years of him singing your praises, suddenly you’re a ‘friend of humanity.’ He was what, twenty when you met him? He should be nearly sixty now, and yet he still looks barely any older at all! He’s the reason you found me. He’s the reason you went to the banquet in Cintra. He’s the reason for  _ all _ of it…”

“So you’re saying - what? That he’s some sort of  _ god?” _

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible. You said so yourself, he’s human. He probably has no idea what else he is. But he  _ is _ more than that. He is the embodiment of fate’s path. He creates destiny. Fate Weavers drive the flow of time.”

When Geralt continued to look at her blankly, Yennefer sighed. “Do they not teach you these things in your training? There are only ever a handful of them in the world, living human lives, crafting destinies, constantly being reborn to continue moving the world.”

“Reborn?” Something tugged in Geralt’s chest, like a long forgotten memory that he’d once held dear.

“Jaskier will be in this world far longer than you or I, Geralt. Maybe not with this face and voice, but whenever this form dies, he will come back.”

The tugging came again, sharper. It felt like he couldn’t catch his breath. “Did you know,” he said faintly, senselessly, “that  _ Jaskier _ in Koviran means  _ buttercup?” _

It couldn’t be. It was impossible. Totally impossible.

But, just moments ago, Geralt had thought it impossible that Jaskier was anything other than human. Now, the memories came flooding back, sharp and clear as though they’d been only yesterday. Buttercup’s easy laughter, her bright smile. The way Geralt had been drawn to her. How much their short time together had changed him.

He wanted to ask Yennefer what happened if a Fate Weaver died before their time. How long it took them to be reborn. If they were drawn into the same fates over and over again, or if it was all simply random.

He didn’t ask any of that. He might not ever know if Jaskier really was Buttercup reborn. He didn’t need to know. What he needed was the knowledge that Jaskier wasn’t going to leave this world because of Geralt’s mistakes. And if Jaskier was the one who had been driving his fate, well, hadn’t Geralt given up trying to deny his destiny? Maybe there was a chance, after all their time together, that Jaskier would forgive Geralt’s cruel words.

“You  _ do _ love him.”

Yennefer’s soft words halted Geralt’s thoughts. He wanted Jaskier, needed him in a way he would never need anyone. But the thought of losing Yennefer… it was more than he could bear.

“Yen-”

“No, don’t. Don’t look at me like this is the end of something. I know you love me too, Geralt.”

He nodded. Gods, did he love her.

“Before… before Ciri, I might not have thought that was possible. I would have forced you to choose, and then I would always have resented you for having to decide at all. But - I’m learning, Geralt. About my heart, and about yours.” She paused, looking out the window. “There were many things your bard resented me for, but my relationship with you was never one of them. He was never threatened by me. I used to hate that. I thought it meant that he didn’t see me as a competitor for your affection. Now, I think that’s because he didn’t see it as a competition at all. He knew you better than I did, back then. He knew there was room in your heart for more than one.”

“He is not a jealous man, by nature. He’s actually a bit of a slut, if you want the truth.” Geralt felt himself smiling. “He is free with his charms, and expects those he shares them with to let him stay free.”

“Free with his charms, but not his heart,” Yennefer guessed. “No matter how many times he was dazzled by a new beau or had his head turned by a pretty face, it was always you he came back to.”

The coldness of reality settled back into Geralt’s chest, and he shook his head. “Until I drove him away.”

Yennefer waved her hand negligently. “So go and apologize. Make your peace with him and bring him back here. I can’t say we’ll be playing happy families by the end of the week, but…” She shrugged, and Geralt felt  _ hope _ in the gesture. Yennefer would try. For him, she would make the effort.

For the first time, he felt like it was actually possible. That he could have everything he wanted. A life with Yennefer  _ and _ Jaskier, without having to choose between them. Without having to lose them. And that he could have things he’d never thought he would want, like Ciri. And maybe, if he was very, very lucky, Jaskier and Yennefer  _ together. _

“I… I don’t even know where he is.”

Yen laughed. “The continent’s best tracker and most powerful sorceress? We could find him at the edge of the world, Geralt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciri is supposed to be much younger than she looks in the show, just fyi. Geralt would very much form a paternal relationship with her.


	7. Chapter 7

Ciri leaned back, making Geralt grumble as he adjusted his hands. “Why won’t you tell me who you and Yen have been looking for?”

Geralt’s fingers stilled for a moment, then he continued, voice casual. “How do you know we’re looking for someone?” 

“Yen taught me all about that instrument she’s been using. And I saw the two of you use a portal the other day.”

“You were supposed to be learning about potion making with Vesemir while we were gone.”

“I was! It’s not my fault that the garden has a perfect view of the courtyard. If you were trying to keep it a secret, you should have done a better job.” She shrugged innocently.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at her, then handed her the end of the braid he’d just finished. “Hold this.” She took it, and he started another section. “It’s not a secret.”

Ciri turned again, eliciting another grumble when Geralt’s fingers were dislodged. “So you’ll tell me?”

“Stop squirming, unless you want to look like a werebeast in a windstorm. Tell me again why you didn’t ask Yen to do this for you?”

“She only does ‘magical hairdos.’ I wanted real braids.”

“You should be learning how to do it yourself, then. Not asking someone to do it for you.”

“It’s harder to learn on your own head. Don’t worry, I’ll practice on you next!”

_ Walked right into that one, _ Geralt thought to himself with a sigh.

“Besides… this is something grandmother used to do for me, when she wasn’t busy. I… I miss it.”

Geralt let his fingers brush against the nape of Ciri’s neck soothingly for a few moments before resuming his braiding. Whatever he may have thought of Calanthe as a ruler, she’d clearly doted on Cirilla, and the girl had lost  _ everything. _ If this was some comfort to her, it was the least Geralt could do for her.

He took his time with the last few braids, then collected the ends Ciri had been holding and weaved them all together into an intricate rope. The whole thing was tied with a simple bit of twine, hardly fit for a princess, but Ciri was pleased.

She wasted no time wrestling Geralt into a seated position on the floor with herself on the bench behind him. She slid her small fingers into his hair and began a clumsy braid.

“So, about the person you’re looking for…?”

Geralt sighed. She was like a dog with a bone. Clearly she wasn’t going to let the matter rest. “We’re searching for someone- someone we both knew, but haven’t seen in a while. He and I used to travel together sometimes.”

“Are you bringing him here to teach me?” 

“I’m sure there’s a lot he could teach you that Yennefer and I can’t.”

“But that’s not why you’re looking for him.”

It wasn’t a question, so Geralt didn’t answer.

“Is he a friend?”

“He’s-” How to describe Jaskier to the girl? He’d never been able to properly label what they were to each other. “He’s someone important to me.”

Ciri’s fingers stilled. “More than a friend, then.” When Geralt didn’t deny it, Ciri continued braiding, moving more slowly. “Does Yen know? That he’s more than a friend?”

Geralt turned to look at her with both brows raised in surprise, inadvertently pulling his hair free from her slack grip. Was she really asking him what it seemed like she was?

“Yes, I  _ do _ know, not that it’s any of your business young lady.” Yennefer’s voice from the doorway saved Geralt from having to find a way to answer. “You’re far too young to be making such assumptions.”

Ciri blushed.

“Then again, I suppose once we’re successful, you’re bound to see things and draw your own conclusions. Perhaps it’s best that you learn about such things before being exposed to them.”

“Yennefer-”

Yen cut off Geralt’s concern with a wave of her hand. “Nothing crass, of course. But a short lesson on what consenting adults might choose to engage in wouldn’t be amiss. Chaos only knows what archaic morals were instilled into her in Cintra.” She shuddered and held out her hand for Ciri, who took it eagerly. They turned to leave when Yen called over her shoulder, “that’s a good look for you, Geralt. You should wear braids more often.”

Geralt groaned.

***

The song filling the tavern wasn’t a happy one. It was heartbreakingly sad.

Geralt immediately recognized the voice singing it.

_ The flowers bloomed _

_ And then they died _

_ As all flowers are doomed to do _

_ All but one _

_ That sits alone _

_ Frozen in time _

_ Left behind- _

The song abruptly cut off, and Geralt knew he’d been seen. He took a slow breath, and looked up at Jaskier.

The bard’s unshuttered emotions were easy to see. Disbelief, then joy crossed his face. In a blink, they were gone, replaced by hurt and a touch of anger. Uncertainty overlaid it all, as though he wasn’t sure if Geralt was there to talk to him or hunt him.

That uncertainty pierced Geralt.

“A short break, my friends, while I avail myself of this tavern’s fine ale.” Jaskier waved to the less than enthused crowd, slung his lute across his back, and approached the bar, keeping several stools between him and Geralt. The barkeep clunked a mug down in front of him, and he drank deeply before he turned.

“What brings you all the way out here?” His voice was deceptively light, as though he hardly cared for the answer, but Geralt could hear the tremble in it.

“You,” he said simply.

“Me?” Jaskier stared at him blankly for a moment. “You- you, what? Need a monster sung to death?”

Geralt shook his head. “We came to find you. To bring you back. To Kaer Morhen, if you’ll come.”

Something like hope sprang into Jaskier’s eyes, but then they narrowed. “ _ ‘We?’ _ ”

“Yennefer helped me track you-”

“Yennefer! I might have guessed. Of course! Well excuse me, Geralt, but I have  _ no _ desire to get in the way of whatever the two of you have going on. I’ll be staying right here, thank you very much-” He went to storm past Geralt toward the door - though where he intended to go, Geralt had no idea - but Geralt caught his arm.

“It’s not like that,” Geralt said, voice low.

“What  _ is _ it like, then?”

“We’re caring for Ciri. My-” He tilted his head to the side, waiting for Jaskier to put the pieces together. It happened rather quickly and Jaskier’s eyes widened to comical proportions.

“CIR-” he cut himself off mid yell, and his voice instantly pitched down to a strained whisper. “-illa? You found the princess?”

Geralt nodded.

Jaskier took a moment to process that, clearly shocked, but then shook himself. “So.. so you found her. I’m glad for you, Geralt, I truly am. And glad for her. But it has nothing to do with me.”

“It has  _ everything _ to do with you. And not just because you’re the reason she’s mine. Jaskier, you-” Geralt stopped, his jaw clenching. He didn’t want to have this conversation like this, in this dingy tavern with drunkards stumbling around them. He’d rather not have it at  _ all, _ if he was being honest, but Jaskier deserved to hear Geralt’s apology. “Come with me,” he pleaded quietly. “Let me explain. Apologize. Please.”

Jaskier stared at him, long and hard, and then nodded. “Alright.”

***

Jaskier didn’t look at Yennefer as they walked through the portal. He gripped his bag in front of him, kept his head down, and stepped through without a word.

Yennefer kindly ported them into an empty hallway of the keep, conveniently near Geralt’s room.

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” she said lightly when the portal closed behind them. She walked away, and Geralt opened the door to his room. Jaskier followed him in.

Jaskier dropped his bag on the bed and sighed. “So, you still blame me. For the Child Surprise. For Yennefer.”

“Not the way you think.”

“Then in what way?”

Geralt sighed. “Jaskier… every good thing that has happened to me in the last half a century has been because of you. However unhappy I may have been at the time, they have all turned out to be blessings.”

Jaskier gaped.

“What I said to you on that mountain- I didn’t mean it. Any of it. You know I’m not… I don’t express myself well, speaking. Either I don’t say enough or I lose my head and say too much. I took my anger out on you, and it was inexcusable. You deserved better. I’m… I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

Jaskier continued gaping.

“But one part of what I said was true. It  _ has _ all been because of you. Ciri, and Yen, and so many other things in between. And I owe you my gratitude.”

Jaskier finally managed to close his mouth and blink. He held up one finger in a ‘just a moment’ gesture, went to his bag, and withdrew something from it. Then he stepped close to Geralt…

And pressed a silver coin to his forehead.

Geralt looked up at it with a smirk. “Not a doppler. It’s really me, Jaskier. Glad to know you’re being cautious, though.”

Jaskier flushed and pulled the coin away. “Thought I ought to check. Considering-” He waved his hand, as though to encompass the entire conversation they’d had. Geralt couldn’t blame him. He’d never been the most verbose, and he wasn’t in the habit of making apologies or giving thanks, even when it was most due. Not with words, anyway.

They were still standing close, and Geralt reached up, gently tugging Jaskier’s curling forelock. Jaskier practically melted under the touch, body swaying closer, eyes growing hooded. Geralt leaned forward to kiss him - truly kiss him, the way he should have years ago - when Jaskier started and pulled back.

“No! You’re- you’re with Yennefer. And I don’t fancy being turned into a puddle of bard because I stepped on what she considers her territory.” His eyes dropped to Geralt’s lips. “No matter how tempting.”

Geralt slid his hand around to cup Jaskier’s jaw, thumb brushing, ever so gently, over his bottom lip. “She’s the one who helped me track you down, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean that she-” he gulped audibly, pupils dilating, “approves of  _ this.” _

“She knows how I feel about you.”

“Oh?” It came out comically high pitched.

“Do you want me to tell you, Jaskier?” Geralt leaned in closer, his lips only a hair’s breadth away from Jaskier’s. “Or would you rather I show you?”

“Sh-showing is good.”

Geralt closed the distance between them, and kissed him.

***

“Jaskier!”

Ciri spotted him across the courtyard, and immediately dropped what she was doing to rush over and hug him.

“Hello, princess.” Jaskier returned the hug. When he saw Geralt’s confused expression, he shrugged. “What? I’m a travelling bard. I might have just happened to be in Cintra a few of the times we were apart after the banquet. And I might have just happened to pop into Calanthe’s court to check in on things.”

Geralt wanted to kiss him again.

“He’s the best bard in the  _ world,” _ Ciri informed the room with utter conviction. “You didn’t tell me Jaskier was the one you were looking for! Oh I’m so happy!”

She pulled back to look at Geralt, brows drawn together in thought. “I wonder if this makes you like an uncle, or another dad, considering-” She gestured between them. Jaskier choked and turned red.

“Stop flustering the men and go back to your studies, Ciri,” Yennefer said from the door.

Ciri flashed them an impish smile and skipped away.

Jaskier looked ready to kiss Yen for the intervention, despite the tension between them. “The cheek of that child,” he finally managed to say.

Yennefer nodded, but there was a hint of a smile around her mouth. “So, you two have managed to kiss and make up?”

Geralt’s head whipped toward her, wondering if she’d been watching them.

“I was groveled to, and accepted graciously, yes.” Jaskier straightened his shoulders. He faced Yennefer squarely. “So where does that leave us?”

“Us? It leaves you and I where we have always been - unalike in every conceivable way except an inconvenient love for a certain witcher. It leaves Geralt and I the way things have been since I came here. Partners in training Ciri, confidants, and occasional bed partners. And it leaves you and Geralt wherever you wish to be. Though from the looks of things,” she scanned him up and down, “you’ve already established that.”

Jaskier flushed again, but didn’t look away. “So we, what - trade off days which of us gets to take him to bed? You threaten to turn me into a toad if he pays attention to me when you want him? You’ve never seemed the sort willing to share.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “I thought you said things with him were  _ easy,” _ she complained to Geralt. “I…” She seemed to stumble over the words, then straightened. “I am not the same woman I was, before. Not since Ciri. Maybe not since Mount Hengfor. He is not a plaything for me to share or not. Nor is love bound to only one person at the exclusion of all others.”

“Oh.”

“ _ ‘Oh,’ _ ” Yennefer repeated in Jaskier’s dumbfounded tone. “Sweet calamity, what have I gotten myself into?” she muttered. “Whatever happens, we will deal with it like rational adults. And, if the bed switching gets too annoying,” she shrugged negligently, “we’ll just get one big enough for all three of us.”

She smirked at a gobsmacked Jaskier, kissed Geralt on the cheek, and sauntered out of the room.

“She can’t be serious,” Jaskier sputtered once she was out of earshot.

Geralt raised a brow. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“B-but she- and you…”

“Would it be a problem?”

“Well  _ no, _ but-”

“Then let’s not borrow trouble for now, hm?”

***

A fortnight later, Geralt took Ciri out of the keep overnight. He wanted to train her to hunt in the dark, even without a full Witcher’s heightened senses. Ciri had been so excited for the trip that she’d walked around the entire day before with stars in her eyes.

It wasn’t the first time Jaskier and Yennefer had slept without Geralt, not by  _ any _ stretch of the imagination, but both of them felt the loss of his presence keenly.

It was late, or perhaps very, very early, when Yennefer slipped into Geralt’s room. There was a sheen of sweat on her skin, and her eyes were slightly wild. She leaned against the wall, trying to calm her racing heart.

Jaskier’s head popped up from among the bed covers.

Yennefer gasped, hand shooting out reflexively as though to blast him. Jaskier squeaked and dove back under the blankets. Thankfully, Yennefer caught herself before she left a smouldering hole in Geralt’s bed.

“What the  _ hell _ are you doing here, Jaskier?”

Jaskier found the courage to come out from under the blankets again. “I could ask you the same question.”

They stared at each other, in a stalemate. Either they would both have to admit that they’d missed Geralt, or they could say nothing and pretend they didn’t know why they each were there.

Yennefer obviously chose the latter. She made her way to the bed, pausing as she got near it. “I’m not here for you to fuck me,” she made clear scornfully.

Jaskier huffed. “Good. I don’t want you to fuck me either.”

That made Yen pause, then smirk as she slid into the bed. “Now there’s a thought. You know, I could make a cock to wear that looks just like Geralt’s.”

“Geralt’s wouldn’t suit you.”

“No?”

Jaskier studied her, giving the matter serious consideration. “Yours would be slimmer. With a more delicate curve.”

“More like yours, you mean?” Yen asked with a brow arched.

“I have absolutely no insecurities in saying that, without a doubt, your cock would be bigger than mine, Yennefer.”

She laughed, and they both settled more comfortably on the bed.

There was a candle flickering on the nightstand, and Yennefer’s eyes were drawn to it, her breath coming short again at the sight of the tiny flame. She closed her eyes and forced her mind away.

“He does know how to use it, though, doesn’t he.”

“What?”

“Geralt. And his obscenely large cock.”

Jaskier snorted. “You know as well as I do.”

“It’s different, with the two of you. Isn’t it?”

“Different how?”

“Well first of all, unless I’ve missed something entirely, you don’t have a vagina.” She said it deadpan, and Jaskier rolled his eyes. “And there are more… options, with you.”

“...huh?”

“Does he let you fuck him?”

Jaskier blinked at her, surprised by the abrupt question. “I feel like answering that would be some sort of invasion of Geralt’s privacy. But he seems to think we could all get along in one big bed, and I’m assuming you’d see everything we get up to then.” He seemed to have made up his mind, because he settled back against the pillows again and shrugged. “Sometimes we switch, yeah.”

“What is it like?”

Jaskier might have brushed off the question as unnecessarily nosey, but she seemed genuinely curious, as opposed to looking for mocking fodder. “Well, brilliant, obviously. Anything in bed with Geralt is. But… more than that, too. It’s arousing and humbling and a bit terrifying to have that much power under you. And you know Geralt, if you were doing it wrong he wouldn’t say anything if it looked like you were enjoying it. He’d go right along with it and probably get off just on you getting off on it.”

“He is nauseatingly giving in bed, isn’t he.”

“He is. But better that than the opposite. Not that that's something you’ve ever had to worry about I’m sure, but trust me.”

Yennefer looked over at him with something almost vulnerable in her gaze. “You have no idea who I was before.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then Jaskier turned on his side, head propped on his hand, so that he was facing Yen. “Why are you here, really?”

She sighed. “Are we talking about this, then?” She mirrored Jaskier’s position on the bed. “It was much easier when our relationship was entirely superficial, petty dislike.”

“Excuse you, mine was not petty. You nearly got me killed, like, multiple times.”

Yen scoffed. “But did you die?”

Jaskier couldn’t help it. He laughed. By the time he stopped, Yen was smiling, looking more open than Jaskier had ever seen her.

“I almost did, you know. Die.” Her tone was light, but Jaskier could tell this wasn’t an easy topic for her. “At Sodden Hill. All that fire…” She shuddered. “I’ve seen death before. Faced it many times. But not like that. I survived, but I didn’t come away unscathed.”

She let out a slow, purposeful breath, and as she did, the air near her right temple shimmered. Fine white lines became visible from the side of her face up to her right eye and across it. Delicate whorling scars that almost looked like some ancient, arcanine tattoo. It was eerily beautiful.

“I was blind, for a while. Sometimes… sometimes when it’s dark, I’m afraid that I can’t see again.”

It was more sincerity, more fragility, than he ever thought she’d allow him to witness. He wanted, desperately, to be able to say something comforting. Something that would help take her fears away - but he knew that she wouldn’t accept his sympathy.

Instead he said with exaggerated seriousness, “I know what you mean.”

Yen scoffed.

“No, I do. Look.” He pulled up the sleeve of his nightshirt and showed her a coin sized burn scar on his inner forearm. “Thought this one was going to do me in. It was almost the end of Jaskier the Great. I was forever after traumatized.”

“Let me guess,” Yennefer said with humored derision. “Hot kettle? Brushed against a stove?”

“Candle, actually. Left one burning in the library at Oxenfurt after a late night studying.”

“Don’t tell me you burned the place down!”

“No, no, nothing like that. But that’s exactly what the professor who found it was convinced would have happened. Bastard dragged me back to the library and held my arm over the candle so that I’d never forget to put one out again. And he did make his point. I never forgot to put out a candle again.”

Yennefer’s face had grown serious once more, the playfulness bleeding away. “Does Geralt know this happened to you?”

“Saint’s mercy,  _ no,” _ Jaskier laughed. “He wanted to hunt down my old professors when I told him about them being a little too liberal with caning. I don’t want to know what he’d have done to the one who did  _ that _ to me.”

“You’re too softhearted. I’d have liked to know what he would do. I’d have wanted to  _ watch.” _

That did not surprise Jaskier at all. Hesitantly, he reached out and brushed Yennefer’s scars with the tips of his fingers. “Does Geralt know this happened to you?” He repeated her question back to her. Yen turned her face away. “You should tell him.”

“So he can pity me? So he can avenge me? I don’t need pity, and I already got my own revenge.”

“You don’t need anything from him,” Jaskier acknowledged. “You are a powerful, self reliant woman. But… maybe  _ he _ needs something from  _ you.” _

“My weakness?”

“Your vulnerability. Something that he can reach. That he can comfort, if you like. He claims that the last thing he wants is to be needed, but you must know by now what a fat lie that is. The man  _ thrives _ on being needed, on being able to help. He wants so desperately to  _ be _ something for the people he cares about. To give. So maybe, even though you don’t need it, let him give something to you. Even if just a shoulder to lean on.”

Yennefer studied Jaskier for a long time. “You know,” she said finally, “you’re not nearly as big of an idiot as I initially thought you were.”

“Why thank you. Coming from you, that’s high praise indeed.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she warned him. “Or to this.” And she reached under the blankets and found his cock. She squeezed gently, smirking when he squeaked.

“I thought you weren’t here for me to fuck you?” His voice was strangled, but his body apparently had  _ no _ inhibitions, and he was almost instantly hard under her expert grasp. 

“I’m not.”

“No?” He looked down pointedly to where she was stroking him.

“This isn’t fucking.”

“Does that mean - _ ah- _ that if I touch you in a similar way, you won’t cut off my hands?”

“That depends,” Yennefer purred, “on the touch. Just how talented are those fingers of yours, Jaskier?”

Jaskier grinned. “Oh,  _ very.” _ He smoothed his hand down her sternum, down the hollow of her belly, and in between her legs. Yen’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she realized that he was talented indeed.

“This is going to be an extremely pleasant night.”

“It really, really is,” Jaskier agreed.

***

When Geralt slipped into his bedroom in the predawn light, he found both his lovers wrapped around each other.  _ That _ certainly wasn’t something he’d ever expected to see. Still, it was an exceptionally pleasant sight. With Ciri safely in bed after her long night’s activities, Geralt took his time to appreciate the view.

Then he shrugged, stripped off his clothes, and slid into the bed with them.

***

***

_ Jaskier’s Journal: _

_ Lady Esteen has thrown me out. She claims I’m too maudlin. I say she is too much of an airhead to know the difference between maudlin and pensive. _

_ No, actually, that was unkind of me. I was a different man the last time she and I shared a bed. Perhaps I am growing maudlin. The tavern crowds certainly have no trouble complaining that my songs lately have been too depressing. It wasn’t Lady Esteen’s fault I hadn’t the same interest in trivialities as she. _

_ Perhaps it was petty of me to sleep with both of her brothers before leaving town. _

_ Oh well. _

_ * _

_ There was dust on this journal when I picked it up. Has it really been so long since I found the urge to record my thoughts, or jot a poem? Pen a song? _

_ Well no more. I shall write at least something every week without fail. _

_ * _

_ * _

_ * _

_ * _

_ * _

_ Godsdamn Geralt of Rivia _

_ * _

_ This quiet tavern on the edge of civilization seems to appreciate my more somber music. Really, it seems just the sort of place  _ **_he_ ** _ would have enjoyed. The patrons either too drunk or too apathetic to cause trouble, the barman liberal with the ale, and the rooms reasonably priced. _

_ Not that I’m thinking about him. I came all this way to avoid even the thought of him. Of what I would say to him, if I saw him again. If he came back to me begging for forgiveness. If he brawled his way back into my life and demanded it. If I stumbled upon him some lonesome evening, both of us trying desperately not to catch the other’s eye. _

_ But there I go again. _

_ Maybe this excursion was for naught. I’ll stay one more night and then move on.  _

_ * _

_ WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED? _

_ I was minding my own business, trying my best not to dwell on over large, grouchy bastards, and then my own personal one pops up like a bloody daisy. _

_ And did I do the sensible thing and send him on his way? Noooooo. Because I am an idiot. _

_ And because he actually apologized to me, and wants me here, and Princess Cirilla is here too, and even though that Sorceress is here as well, somehow Geralt seems to think we’ll all be playing Happy Families. _

_ So here I am. _

_ Gods help me. _

_ * _

_ Oh saint’s mercy, he’s as good in bed as I remembered. _

_ I’m doomed. _

_ * _

_ So, it turns out that Yennefer is… surprisingly human. _

_ We had a - what would it be considered? - a bonding moment. A bonding moment that turned into a boning moment. Ah, that’s not exactly accurate. There were no actual bones involved. Though I think, now, that there could have been. We may not have much in common, but apparently Geralt is a powerful thing to bond over.  _

_ And when he climbed into bed with us this morning… _

_ Well, let’s just say that they might have been onto something with his One Big Bed idea. _


	8. Chapter 8

It was supposed to be a simple excursion. Ciri was being fitted for new clothes, that Yennefer insisted she needed. Apparently conjuring them only went so far, and at a certain point, a real tailor was necessary. Geralt didn’t see why the breeches and tunic she’d been wearing for months now wasn’t enough, but when Jaskier had sided with Yen, Geralt knew it was a lost cause.

They were far enough north that there wasn’t imminent threat of Ciri being spotted, so they’d allowed her to stay at the seamstresses while the three of them went to get other supplies.

Yen had just rejoined them from the apothecary, and Geralt and Jaskier were arguing over the quality of a pair of outrageously colored boots, when they heard the yelling. People from all directions started streaming toward the center of the small town. With a shrug, Yen, Jaskier, and Geralt followed the crowd.

Smoke was the first thing they saw. Then the panicked rush of people coming out of the inn. They had soot on their faces and singed clothes. Flames sprang from the shattered front window.

Someone screamed. People shouted, senseless with fear. No one in the crowd had managed to do anything practical, like start a bucket line to try and douse the flames. The inn was going to burn to the ground. Geralt just hoped it wouldn’t spread to the other buildings.

A woman clutching two children burst from the front door. She coughed violently, tears making tracks in the soot on her face, then looked down at the children. She screamed.

“Kense!  _ Kense! _ Help! Someone help! My boy is still in there!” She lurched forward as though she would go in herself, but the two children clinging to her side refused to let her go.  _ “Help!” _

There was an explosion, and it shattered every nearby window. Flames shot out, licking the air greedily.

“Keg must have blown,” Geralt muttered. No one was going toward the inn to rescue the trapped boy. “Yen, think you could open a-” 

She was frozen, eyes wide and glassy. He could see the flames reflected in her pupils, blown wide with horror. She trembled.

“Yennefer!”

“Geralt, the boy-”

“Yennefer!” He shook her lightly, but she just stared at him with unseeing eyes. Her skin was cold, despite the heat. “Jaskier, she’d in shock. We need to-”

Geralt turned in time to see Jaskier disappear through the inn’s front door.

_ “Fuck!” _

Yennefer would have to wait. Jaskier was going to get himself killed in those flames. Geralt tore off after him.

The interior of the building was filled with blinding smoke. The tavern on the lower level was almost completely engulfed in flames. Geralt shielded his eyes and forced his way through the fire.

“Jaskier!”

Even Geralt’s heightened sense of hearing couldn’t distinguish sounds of human life over the hiss of burning wood and the crashing of the building falling down around him. He found the stairs. They’d collapsed at the bottom, but it looked fresh, the insides of the risers not yet singed. Had it fallen when Jaskier climbed it? Geralt vaulted himself up and raced up the stairs. He turned down a hall that was entirely eaten by flames and had to back track. Down another hall, through the smoke, he saw movement.

“Jaskier!”

The beam above Geralt’s head crashed down on top of him.

***

Geralt’s vision swam. His ears were ringing. His throat felt like it was burning.

Burning.

He jerked, his head clearing instantly.

_ Jaskier. _

The enormous timber on top of him was burning, but Geralt shoved it with both hands, heedless of the way his skin blistered. He should have been able to throw it off, but it was wedged against the wall, and he’d already inhaled so much smoke…

Could Jaskier have even survived this long in the fire?

“Jaskier!” His voice was hoarse, broken with damage and desperation.  _ “Jaskier!” _ He shoved the beam again, screaming as he put all his strength behind it. The burning wood groaned, then finally snapped. Geralt pushed the broken ends apart and staggered to his feet.

There was a sucking noise, and the air just in front of him shimmered. Yennefer stepped through, face streaked with tears, eyes wild. “Geralt!”

“Up ahead! Jaskier!” Geralt pointed to the door he’d seen Jaskier go through, doggedly following Yennefer as she rushed forward.

The room’s window was broken, and smoke poured out of it, but there was still a thick haze over the small space. Geralt almost tripped over the body on the floor.

_ Jaskier. _

He wasn’t moving. Panic seized Geralt’s heart. “Yen, the boy-”

“Jaskier threw him out the window before he succumbed. The villagers caught him.”

“Get us out of here.” Geralt gathered Jaskier in his burned arms and forced himself to his feet. Yennefer opened another portal and they stepped through.

***

The forest clearing was quiet, and serene. It seemed blasphemous, when Jaskier was unmoving on the ground. Geralt pressed his head to Jaskier’s chest, hoping desperately that he just hadn’t heard the heartbeat that should be there, even though he knew that was impossible. Yennefer had her hand on Jaskier’s head, a blue glow surrounding the place where they were connected.

“The smoke-” Geralt couldn’t bring himself to say more. Each word felt like a dagger in his throat. He wanted to scream. He wanted to howl at the fates, to rage until they undid this. He wanted to shake Jaskier and demand that the bard rewrite his own destiny.

But even as he held Jaskier’s lifeless body, he remembered Buttercup. He remembered the fever that had gripped her, heedless of her greater purpose, heedless of Geralt’s love. There were things that even fate could not foresee, could not stop.

Death.

Heartbreak.

Loss.

“There’s… there’s nothing I can…” Yennefer looked up at Geralt, her face twisted in grief. Then she hunched over Jaskier and sobbed.

And Geralt knew, in that moment, that this was real. That Jaskier was dead.

He felt cold, despite his still smouldering clothes. Hollow, like he’d been scooped out. Empty.

Someone might have been begging  _ “no,” _ over and over, but that couldn’t have been him. That wasn’t his voice, raw and broken.

Then Yennefer’s hand was on him, a spell soothing the pains that Geralt no longer felt, that were inconsequential to what was inside him, and her arm wrapped around him.

“He’ll come back,” she whispered. “He’ll come back, and we’ll find him, Geralt. If we have to search the whole world over for the rest of our lives, we’ll find him.”

It seemed such a small comfort, with Jaskier’s skin growing cold under his touch. But it was all he had. The only thing he could cling to. He nodded and forced himself to lay Jaskier down. Shakily, he got to his feet.

“We need to get Ciri.” They would have to come back, to bury Jaskier. Bring him to Kaer Morhen, where he could have a proper grave. But Ciri would be wondering-

Jaskier gasped.

His eyes flew open, and he choked out a cough.

For half a moment, Geralt was frozen, then he fell to his knees at Jaskier’s side.

“Jaskier!”

“Ow, little tight there, Geralt-”

Geralt pulled back with disbelief, not only that Jaskier was  _ alive, _ and  _ speaking, _ but that of course it was to complain. He laughed, with relief, and joy, and more than a touch of hysteria.

“How…?” He looked up at Yen, still not letting Jaskier go. She looked just as amazed as him.

“I - I don’t know. He was  _ dead. _ There’s no coming back…”

“Excuse me -  _ dead?” _

Yennefer continued, as if Jaskier hadn’t just interrupted in shock. “We knew he would come back… but Weavers are supposed to come back born into different human bodies each time.”

“Weavers??”

They continued to ignore Jaskier’s confusion.

“But he’s still  _ him.” _

“I don’t know! It’s unheard of. Totally. But… it can’t be impossible, because we’re looking at it right here.” She ran her hand over Jaskier’s body, as though to assure herself that he wasn’t an illusion. “Fate decided.  _ He _ decided. To stay.”

_ “Will someone please explain to me what the fuck is going on?” _

Geralt laughed and held Jaskier tighter.

***

Vesemir had seen many things in his time on earth. He’d walked the Path for many human lifetimes, and then spent just as much time again training young Witchers at Kaer Morhen. Not much was capable of surprising him any more.

But he never, never thought he’d see the day when an enormous mattress was brought into the keep so that a Witcher, a sorceress, and a bard could share it.

He rolled his eyes and sighed, but he knew better than to say anything. Especially with said sorceress sitting beside him, watching Geralt and Jaskier struggle to get the mattress up the stairs. She could have used magic to make the situation easier, but for whatever reason, preferred to enjoy the sight of them struggling.

“Just bend the fucking thing,” Geralt growled.

“I can’t bend it any more! You pull!”

“I  _ am!” _

“I swear, if you drop this fucking thing, I’m going to strangle you Jaskier.”

“Joke’s on you, I’m basically immortal!”

“You can still  _ die, _ moron. You just  _ might _ come back.”

“Even still. You love me too much to-” Jaskier cursed as the mattress slipped, hands scrabbling to find a better place to grip the bed. “Come on, this is just ridiculous.”

“Push, Jaskier!”

“Not everyone is as strong as you, Geralt! I’m a weak pathetic human, and you’d better remember that!”

Their bickering continued all the way up the twisting stairs. Yennefer sipped her wine serenely.

A few minutes later, Geralt came down again with murder in his eyes.

“You.” He pointed at Yennefer. “Upstairs,  _ now.” _

Yen laughed derisively. “I don’t take orders from you.”

Geralt stalked closer, lifted her from her seat by her upper arms, and pressed her against the wall behind her. He leaned in close, pressing their bodies together. “Get. In the  _ fucking. _ Bed.”

Yennefer’s lips parted. “Oh.” She visibly melted against him. “When you put it like  _ that.” _

He backed up a step, and she glided quickly up the stairs.

“Quite the harem you’ve got started, Geralt.”

Geralt glared at Vesemir. “It’s not a harem, it’s a fucking menagerie. And somehow,  _ I’m _ the rational one of the lot.”

Vesemir laughed and clapped Geralt on the shoulder. “Best not keep them waiting, lad.”

***

When Geralt walked in, Jaskier had his face buried between Yennefer’s legs, and she was shaking through an orgasm.

“Really, you two?”

Jaskier’s head jerked up, and Yen immediately pushed it back down. She wrapped her thighs around his head, eyes closing in bliss when he groaned, and rode out the rest of her climax on his tongue before releasing him. Finally free, he sat up and wiped his mouth.

“It was her fault!”

Geralt cocked a brow.

“She seduced me! With her… her feminine wiles!”

“Feminine wiles?” Yen repeated.

“Yes! You should have seen her, Geralt, sitting there with her legs parted looking all-” he waved his hand her general direction, “-like she does, clearly worked up, just begging to be tasted. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Uh huh.” Geralt clearly didn’t buy the excuse - though they both knew he wasn’t even upset they’d started without him. Yen and Jaskier’s relationship continued to confuse and astound him, but he never begrudged how close they’d become. “Well, Yen, I think it’s only fair you return the favor, don’t you?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Are you going to fuck me while I do?”

“Do you want me to?”

She nodded.

“On your knees, then,” Geralt ordered. Jaskier sat back against the pillows while Yen dropped to her forearms and knees between his legs. Geralt got on the bed behind her, hands sliding up her thighs until he could feel her wetness.

“Me next, me next!” Jaskier chanted eagerly.

Yennefer tsked. “Only if there’s anything left in you after I wring you dry.” She lowered her mouth and swallowed down the length of his straining erection. Jaskier whimpered.

“Oh fuck -  _ yes. _ Even -  _ ah - _ even if I couldn’t get it up again, and I  _ will, _ I’d still want him to pound me into this bloody mattress while I lick your cunt agai-” It ended on a howl as Geralt pushed into Yennefer from behind, making her swallow around Jaskier’s cock.

Jaskier didn’t even try to talk, after that. All he could do was pant and moan and watch. Watch Yennefer’s deliciously lush lips take his cock over and over. Watch Geralt’s skin flush and his face twist with pleasure as he fucked her hard and fast.

He came well before Yen did, and she laid her head against his stomach as Geralt continued thrusting into her. He stroked her hair absentmindedly. She moaned and her body trembled, spiraling closer and closer to climax. Right when her breath caught, muscles clenched tight, she lurched forward and kissed Jaskier.

His surprise quickly faded and he cradled her face in his hands, kissing back just as ardently.

The sight of his lovers kissing, combined with the way Yennefer was clenching around him, was enough to make Geralt spill. They all collapsed forward together into a pile of tangled, sweat slick limbs.

Eventually, Geralt pushed up to one elbow and looked at Jaskier. “Did you mean it about wanting me to fuck you?” His cock was still hard, and just thinking about that kiss had him aching with want all over again.

“Oh  _ fuck _ yes,” Jaskier breathed.

Yen grinned and laid back against the pillows, her legs spread eagerly.

***

Jaskier and Yennefer watched Geralt training Ciri across the courtyard. He was showing her how to follow through with a sword strike when it hit against metal. The gruff Witcher, more than twice the girl’s size, was incredibly gentle as he showed her what to do. He patiently explained every part of the motion. When he moved back and her footing slipped, he stepped back in and corrected it, encouraging her rather than chiding.

He could be tough with her - they’d both seen it. When it was necessary, when she was ready for it, when she would  _ learn _ from it. But the rest of the time, he was like this.

“Bath tonight?” Jaskier asked, shooting a sidelong glance at Yen.

“You read my mind.”

“Still have that almond massage oil?”

“Mmhm. You’re going to have to bring it up this time though, or he’ll start to think I’m obsessed with bathing.”

“Aren’t you?”

Yen swatted him.

“Maybe I’ll bring wood up to the bedroom. And my poor, aching back will need a good soak and massage.”

“And since you’re already getting pampered, I  _ suppose _ I’ll let him do the same to me.”

“And you  _ suppose _ you’ll enjoy the sweet, sweet lovemaking after?”

“No supposing necessary,” Yen laughed.

“How much of a fuss do you think he’ll put up if we try to return the favor?”

“Oh, the usual.”

Jaskier shook his head. “You’d think he’d  _ want  _ to be the one getting taken care of from time to time.”

“Our Witcher?” Yen’s brow rose. “No. This  _ is _ how we get to take care of him. You’re the one who taught me that, remember?”

It was true. Jaskier had been the one to tell her to open up to Geralt. To let herself need him. To let him be needed.

They could all survive perfectly well on their own, each of them. Not as happily, no, but they could stand on their own. They didn’t need to, though. They could want each other, lean on each other,  _ need _ each other, and it didn’t make them weaker. It made them stronger.

There was so much uncertainty in their future. They had no idea what would come with the war, and Ciri’s powers, and everything else that might come their way. 

But what they did know was that they would face it together.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I didn't write the lyrics to Toss A Coin, however all the other silly little songs you see in this fic are my own ridiculous creations.


End file.
